Shadow of the Past (Heir of Darkness, Book 1)
by Asviloka
Summary: Harry Potter did not have a happy childhood. Harry Potter did have snakes, however, and that was almost enough. Until he met a man who could also converse with snakes, who introduced Harry to his true heritage as a Wizard and as an Heir of Slytherin. - Year 1. Slytherin!Harry, Mentor!Quirrell, AU, gen.
1. When One War Ends

**_Heir of Darkness, Year One_**

 ** _Shadow of the Past_**

* * *

 _Prologue: When One War Ends_

* * *

Just outside Number Four Privet Drive, a tabby cat sat upon a wall. Her name was Minerva McGonagall and she watched the far end of the street with determined intensity, her mouth set in an expression of firm displeasure.

Rumor claimed the war was over. That _He_ was gone, at long last. Elsewhere, the wizarding populace celebrated in the pubs or streets, threw impromptu parties, incautiously risking exposure and seeming to no longer care about security.

To Minerva, it all seemed terribly presumptuous. Instead of joining the celebrants she came here, the most heavily-protected place she knew, to await the inevitable arrival of the one person whose knowledge of the situation she could actually trust.

While she kept her silent vigil and waited, she contemplated the residents of the house. A large man, Vernon Dursley, his skinny wife, Petunia Dursley, and their large infant son Dudley Dursley. The child screamed and punched his mother as she waved goodbye to her husband as he drove away to do whatever muggles did during the day. The woman then spent most of the morning gossiping over the fence, sending the occasional suspicious glance in Minerva's direction as the day wore on without her leaving or chasing mice or whatever it was muggles expected cats to do.

This being the first time Minerva had occasion to come to Privet Drive, she hadn't realized the emergency safe-house was already occupied. And by _muggles_ no less.

Though she and Filius helped develop the defences here, Albus Dumbledore had been the one personally implementing them over the past year whenever he had a free moment.

Minerva was not pleased with anything she saw of the Dursleys' lives. She couldn't imagine sharing house-space with them, nor could she believe the defences were intended to protect them. Dumbledore was clearly acting on a different set of information than she was privy to.

It made her feel uneasy.

She doubted any objections she might raise would mean anything at this point. Enough powerful magic had already been put in place, enough warding enchantments and heavy protection charms, she doubted that Mad-Eye himself would be able to penetrate the defences. It would take a truly remarkable effort to change the plan after it was so far along, whatever that plan ended up being.

Hours passed, late morning slipping into early afternoon, then from there into evening, night drawing nearer. Vernon Dursley returned home, glared at Minerva and tried to shoo her away, but she merely watched him sternly until he gave up and went indoors.

When the ancient wizard finally appeared, clicking his deluminator to darken the street, Minerva sat up straighter. Her tail flicked in irritated impatience. The whole day she had waited, and now he finally showed up with this casual attitude.

He walked slowly, came at last to stand beside the wall where she waited.

"Minerva, you look quite stiff. Do come down please."

She jumped down to the ground, the cat melting and stretching, returning to her original form. The witch smoothed her rumpled emerald cloak, adjusted her square glasses.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Albus asked, his tone casual.

"Long enough," she said. Hesitated. "Is it true, Albus?" she asked quietly, unable to wait any longer. "What they're saying? Are James and Lily really. . ."

Albus nodded sadly. "They are dead."

"I heard rumors, but. . . I didn't want to believe it. Oh, Albus." Grief overwhelmed her and she fell silent, composed herself.

The more important part of what she had heard must be confirmed as well or she could not dare to believe it.

"Then, is You-Know-Who really gone?"

Albus sighed. "It would seem so. For the moment, at least. Though. . . it might have been better had he not."

Minerva drew in a breath. "How could you say that? Better that he was still at large, still terrorizing and murdering—"

The older wizard held up a hand. "You know why the Potters had to go into hiding?"

"You-Know-Who was targeting them," Minerva said, not quite confidently. "They had no choice, with young Harry to look after. . ." she trailed off, feeling distinctly that she was missing something.

"Not many know this, Minerva," Albus said, lowering his voice, "the true reason they were targeted by Voldemort. There is a prophecy."

Minerva gasped. "Truly?"

"Alas, yes. It is a confusing tangle, one I would not inflict upon another willingly, but I can tell you this. The prophecy foretold 'the one with the power to subdue the Dark Lord', born last year, 'as the seventh month dies'."

It didn't take long for her to put the piece into place. "Harry? So it's true, that You-Know-Who tried to kill Harry and failed? But it was because of a prophecy."

" _The one with the power to subdue the Dark Lord._ It is he, without a doubt."

"Albus, but surely this is good news?"

He shook his head slowly. "Right now, the people want assurance of safety. Right now, they need a hero to celebrate. Not to fear."

Minerva felt a cold shiver run through her. "Fear? _Harry?_ But why?"

"The full contents of the prophecy are known only by me, and so it shall remain. But there are two parts in particular that you should be aware of. The first part, that Harry will have the power to subdue the Dark Lord. And this: _He will rival the greatest, with power of darkness and light._ "

"Darkness?" Minerva whispered. "But. . . Albus, what does this mean?"

"Among other things, that we must take the greatest of care with what magic young Harry is exposed to. And, more importantly, most essentially, the world must believe that Harry and Voldemort are destined to be mortal foes."

"You're scaring me. Please tell me this isn't what it sounds like?"

"Alas, Minerva, I cannot offer reassurances. We have been granted a reprieve from Voldemort's war, and for that we can be grateful. He will return, I have no doubt of that. The prophecy makes it clear, this is not his final defeat."

"What does that mean for us? For Harry?"

"We will watch, be vigilant, and prepare for Voldemort's return. Harry will come here, with his relatives, where he will be safely away from any Dark influences until it is time for him to come to Hogwarts under our protection."

Minerva glanced disapprovingly toward the house behind them. "You intend to place Harry _here_?" she asked. "I've been watching them all day, they are the _worst_ sort of muggles, surely anyone else—"

"No," Albus said simply. "It must be here."

"But why?"

"Voldemort will return, and it is vital that we keep him and Harry apart for as long as possible. Only here, protected by blood magic of the greatest strength, will he remain completely secure from any who might mean him harm. And perhaps, by growing up in a normal family away from his fame, he can be prevented from becoming arrogant and overly self-assured."

"I don't like this plan at all, Albus," Minerva said. "I must object to allowing any wizard to be subjected to _these_ people for his entire childhood. And Harry particularly! There are plenty within the Order who could take him in. Defences nearly as impenetrable can be placed anywhere. Wouldn't it be better to have time, to prepare him—"

"No, Minerva, I am quite sure of this. This disaster was of my doing. I had hoped. . . well, had James and Lily survived, things may be different, but now. . . the less contact Harry has with magic, the safer everyone will be. Hagrid will be bringing him along shortly, and then we must leave him."

"I know you've put a lot of effort into defending this place, but why—"

"They are Harry's closest living relatives. His mother died to save him, and with that bond of blood and love he can be protected far more securely here than anywhere else. I have written a letter, explaining everything, so his relatives can inform him of his true nature when he is old enough. We must never return here after tonight, Minerva. Never draw attention to this place. It is a safe haven by virtue of its secrecy far more than by the protections that lie upon it, for Harry will not spend his entire childhood within its walls. And while I can do my utmost to protect him and his abode, there is no defence that cannot be broken."

"But, Albus. . ."

The old wizard held up his hand again. "Ten years is not so long. We will see him again quite soon."

"For a child, it is much longer," Minerva said.

"Perhaps. But I have had a year and more to consider what must be done should my attempts to avert the prophecy fail, and this is truly the only way. Until Harry is old enough and strong enough to protect himself, and wise enough to resist the temptation of the Dark, we must at all costs prevent Voldemort from finding him. I wish it could be different, Minerva, truly."

"Then I will trust you," she replied, "as I always have."

But in the quiet of her own thoughts, doubts could not be so easily silenced.

 _The one with the power to subdue the Dark Lord._

A vague sense of unease settled itself in the back of her mind. One she didn't quite dare to examine or put into words.

(Soon enough, thoughts of this evening and its mysteries would be driven away by the relentless march of routine, decades-worn habits easily usurping her attention. It would become little more than an idle curiosity in moments when Lily or James were brought to mind, for at Minerva's age time slipped by all too quickly indeed.)

 _The one with the power to rival the greatest._

But the war was finally over. Now, for a while at least, things could return to normal. The wizarding world could recover from the staggering losses it had sustained, rebuild itself into a semblance of order once again.

Minerva and Albus sat together in the quiet of the night, each lost in their own thoughts, awaiting the arrival of one who could be savior or destroyer.

 _The one with the power of Darkness and Light._

The orphan baby called Harry Potter.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _October 2017:_ _ _This prologue underwent a major revision_. The prophecy has been changed even further from the original, and some minor background details were added or altered. _

_April 2019: Removed foreword._

* * *

Special thanks to Obscured Angel, for her invaluable critical input on this chapter!


	2. The Boy Who Lived With Snakes

**_Shadow of the Past_**

 ** _Part One:_ Worthless _  
_**

* * *

 _The Boy who Lived with Snakes_

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number Four Privet Drive were never happy to find snakes in their house. Unfortunately for their peace of mind, it occurred with alarming regularity.

The first time it happened was a few months after their horrid nephew Harry had appeared on their doorstep. The tiny boy sat in his corner, playing with his toes and muttering in baby talk, when a small green garden snake slipped out from under the baseboard and approached him. Harry's eyes went wide. While the baby part of him wanted to grab the snake and probably put it in his mouth, another part of him felt afraid. He stopped talking, hands frozen on his tiny toes, and watched the snake as it slithered closer.

The snake raised its head from the ground, hissing quietly as it watched the boy. Harry whimpered and pulled his legs up in front of his chest, watching back.

Petunia Dursley saw the snake and screamed. She grabbed a broom and, shrieking loudly the whole while, chased the snake out the back door and into the garden. She shivered, dusted her hands off, and glared at the boy. She knew it was his fault, it couldn't be anything else.

Over the years, the Dursleys grew used to the invasion, though never pleased. Vernon tried to seal every potential inlet, caulking every seam, insulating every pipe, blocking every tiniest crack. Still they found their way in, slithering in whenever the door opened, coming through the garage drains. . . one even managed to slip down the chimney, though none of the Dursleys could imagine how a snake had climbed onto the roof.

Petunia still screamed every time she caught a snake in the house, swatting them out the door or flinging them out the window. Vernon grumbled and complained, gave them a disgruntled kick and mainly ignored them despite his wife's protestations.

Their son Dudley on the other hand rather enjoyed chasing them around, swinging them by their tails, and keeping them secretly in glass jars for as long as he could. Dudley knew his mother would shriek and throw them out into the garden the moment she discovered them.

And he suspected that his worthless cousin Harry enjoyed ratting him out, as his snakes had an astonishing tendency of vanishing whenever Dudley left. One more reason to beat the slippery little snot. But he knew as a matter of course that new snakes would always find their way into the house, so if he wanted to play with one it would only require a little looking around.

For Harry's own part, he had overcome his initial instincts for fear long ago and felt very sorry for the small creatures. He understood what it was like to be tormented and chased for no reason. The snakes did seem to like it in his cupboard, and since it was the one place in the house none of the Dursleys cared about he was pleased to be able to provide a safe haven.

He did not know how unusual this state of affairs truly was, having grown up with it. Dudley always chased him, Uncle Vernon always complained about him, Aunt Petunia always glared at him, and snakes always found their way into the house. That's just how life was.

Harry made hiding spots for them, warned them in quiet whispers that they should stay out of sight when anyone else was around. They hissed quietly back and always seemed to follow his instructions, so he liked to imagine that they could understand him.

He would call his snake friends out from their cracks and corners, stroke their smooth scaly backs, and whisper his troubles to them. When he was locked in his cupboard for being too loud or not finishing his chores quickly enough, or hiding because Dudley had caught him and hit him, they always listened attentively. Though he got the distinct impression that human affairs went well over their heads.

Even if he wasn't allowed any real pets, wasn't allowed to play with other children, and his only acquaintance outside the house was the strange old Mrs. Figg, the gentle companionship of the ever-present reptiles provided him someone to talk to who would never hurt him. It was enough.

—=====—

It was on Dudley's birthday, a bit over a month before Harry would be turning eleven, that he finally held a proper conversation with his scaly friends.

Due to a string of fortuitous coincidences, Harry was permitted to accompany his relatives on Dudley's birthday trip to the zoo instead of being left in Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling house. Harry was even given a cheap lemon ice and managed several delicious bites before Dudley stole it away.

Harry didn't protest, knowing that if he caused a scene it would only get him slapped or punished worse when they returned home. The chance to see the world outside the Dursley's house and Dudley's school was too good to risk losing.

Harry had never seen many animals beside the ever-present snakes and the occasional stray cat peering in the window at him. Even though he knew it would give Dudley an excuse to hit him, he couldn't hide his grin. It was a beautiful day, made all the more glorious by the fact that he was out somewhere _new_.

Dodging his cousin was easier than usual, as even Dudley couldn't resist the multitude of distractions that presented themselves in every direction - far more diverting than a mundane game of Harry-hunting.

They toured about the different sections before finally coming to what Harry knew would be his favourite place - the reptile house. He had seen small garden snakes of every sort, but here they had massive foreign serpents in unbelievable variety.

Dudley promptly found the largest snake in the place and strode up to its window.

"You're a big fellow," he said to the snake behind the glass, his grin bordering on a smirk. "I could make a proper lasso with you. Wouldn't that be fun?"

The snake, being fast asleep, did not reply.

Dudley banged on the glass. "Wake up, you stupid thing!" he shouted.

The snake woke, Harry could tell by the way its breathing changed just the slightest bit, but it didn't move.

Dudley took advantage of his cousin's distraction to smack Harry upside the head. "Make it move!"

Harry tapped the glass half-heartedly. The snake opened one eye, watching him.

Dudley smacked Harry again, then stormed off to find something more entertaining.

 _"Your servant is quite uncouth, master,"_ the snake hissed quietly.

Harry blinked, a faint burning pain building in his forehead. He heard hisses, and understood _words_.

 _"Are you talking to me?"_ he asked quietly.

 _"Of course,"_ the snake replied. _"I had heard rumors that you were in the city, but it is often hard to believe street gossip."_

It stretched, bunched its muscles, relaxed into its casual drape over the rock. It extended its head, so it was facing Harry properly. _"We have been waiting a long time for you to grow into your birthright, master."_

 _"Why do you call me master?"_ Harry asked. His headache at the effort of translation was starting to fade now, as though his mind had begun to adapt to the new method of communication.

 _"Because it is the truth,"_ the snake said. _"We are small, short-lived, and quite impotent without the protection and guidance of a master. You sliizashisa have been our rightful leaders since we were awakened generations ago. This we all know instinctively."_

The word 'Sliizashisa' was almost direct transliteration, as Harry's mind couldn't quite grasp its actual meaning. It almost made him think 'status as heir' but there were at least two concepts missing from that translation that just didn't exist in his vocabulary.

It made his head hurt to think about it, so he decided to mentally treat it as akin to a noble title among snakes and leave it at that.

"You made it move, about time." Dudley shoved Harry roughly aside, sending the smaller boy sprawling to the ground.

The snake hissed indignantly and raised its head to glare at Dudley. _"Your servant is most impertinent,"_ it hissed, somehow conveying disdain and threat. _"May I be permitted to punish him?"_

 _"He's not my servant, he's my cousin,"_ Harry said. _"And I'll only get in trouble if you hurt or scare him, so better not to."_

The snake lowered itself to the rocks, slithering in a way that Harry translated as a submissive shrug. _"As you wish, master."_

"Hey, why'd you tell it to go back to sleep?" Dudley demanded, smacking the glass and turning on Harry. Harry, having forgotten to get to his feet, skittered backwards and scrambled to jump up. Unfortunately, Dudley was too close. His larger cousin wrapped his arms around him, picked him up off the ground, and pressed him against the glass. "Wake it _back up,_ Dudley growled in Harry's ear.

Harry sighed. _"Could you wave your head around a bit, my cousin wants you to move and I don't really want to be beaten up this early in the day. If you don't mind, of course."_

The snake nodded, rearranged itself, swayed back and forth. _"I do not understand your insistence on allowing this fool to command you, master,"_ the snake hissed. _"He is not even wizshis."_

Another term he couldn't translate, this one more directly related to whatever ( _power-motion-action_ ) concept Harry just didn't have.

 _"I don't understand,"_ he said.

Dudley finally let him go, and he sat down hard with the sudden drop. Rage flashed through him. He normally suppressed such emotions, as lashing out was best done with words and _angry_ words were rarely clever or biting enough, but just then he wanted Dudley to _respect_ him for once.

Perhaps the snake had gotten him worked up with all this 'master' business, but something in him snapped. Something he didn't understand, the _wizshis_ part of him.

Dudley leered down at the snake, his face pressed against glass that suddenly vanished. Off balance, the pudgy boy toppled into the cage face-first, splashing into the water that filled the bottom of the tank.

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed. It was a quiet, vindictive laugh, the laugh of one satisfied at justice being done, but also a somewhat frightened laugh of a normal boy whose world suddenly included talking snakes and, more unexpected still, glass that simply stopped existing for a few minutes before returning to its normal status.

His aunt and uncle found them by Dudley's angry screams from within the cage. Though their quiet glares promised retribution, Harry couldn't bring himself to care.

The look of terror on Dudley's face upon realizing he was trapped in a cage with the largest snake in the zoo was worth every moment of whatever punishment they decided upon.

—=====—

Following that incident, weeks passed without Harry being released from his cupboard for longer than the time it took for him to attend school and do his more unpleasant chores under the stern eye of Aunt Petunia.

Once school ended, partway through his punishment period, he was no longer allowed to leave the house at all. His meals were limited and the near-constant inactivity eroded what strength he had. He took ill and spent several days in acute discomfort which went completely untreated, earning him nothing but Dudley's constant scorn for his 'weakness.'

If he hadn't had the ever-changing array of snakes to talk to, he probably would have lost his mind.

As it was, by the time Harry was finally allowed out-of-doors again he had lost much of his former speed and stamina. Dodging Dudley and his gang of thuggish friends became near impossible. The few times he managed it were always accompanied by inexplicable happenings; a hedge suddenly changing its location, Harry leaping clear over a ten-foot stone wall.

Once he even found himself wedged securely in the chimney with no idea how he'd managed to climb in, but they couldn't find him and eventually gave up. He dropped to the ground, dusted himself off, and went walking in the yard on the opposite side of the house from the sound of their voices.

He had something to consider, something puzzling and important.

For several days now, he'd been hearing rumors about a 'master-not-master' from visiting snakes, one in London and searching for _him_. At least that was the nearest translation he could discern, communication was never quite precise between species.

 _"Why does he want me?"_ he asked a small speckled snake who lived under the hedge. _"No one can tell me."_

 _"Master-not-master has not said his reasons,"_ the snake hissed in reply. _"He cannot find master Harry, cannot visit the house, wants to meet you."_

Harry leaned closer. _"He wants to meet me?"_ he asked quietly. He'd heard that the stranger wanted to _find_ him, but never before mention of a meeting.

 _"He waits at the park every night for two hours after sunset,"_ the snake replied. _"He has told us all to convey this message to you."_

Harry tapped a finger on his lips thoughtfully. He was locked in his cupboard each night, to 'prevent the brat from destroying the house while we sleep', but he could probably figure out a way to slip the bolt from inside. It wasn't a very secure lock, but he'd never before had reason enough to risk punishment and discovery just to roam the house at night.

The chance to meet another person who talked with snakes, though, that was an opportunity he could hardly ignore.

The park was a good half-hour away from Privet Drive. Two hours after sunset, his aunt and uncle might still be awake. He would have to be very quiet and very lucky if he was to evade notice. And he was sure he would only have one chance at it; Uncle Vernon would replace the simple slide-bolt with something more secure once he realized Harry could escape his cupboard.

 _"I would like to meet him,"_ Harry said. _"But I don't know how soon I will be able to get away. Send word to him that I will try my best to come see him."_

The snake hissed agreement. _"It will be conveyed."_

 _"Thank you,"_ Harry whispered.

He heard the voices of his cousin's gang coming toward this side of the house, and quickly scurried away to hide. He didn't want to be caught by Dudley after one of his miraculous escapes had given him such a window of opportunity.

Dudley always seemed furious at being cheated, whenever Harry escaped because of inexplicable happenings, in a different sort of way than when he simply failed to catch the faster and more agile boy.

So Harry slipped away and hid, extra careful to make good his escape. For another afternoon, at least, he would be free of his cousin's cruel games.

—=====—

* * *

 _~ Updated 7-9-17 to fix formatting errors._


	3. The Man With Two Shadows

_The Man With Two Shadows_

* * *

It took five nights of practice before Harry was able to wiggle the bolt on his cupboard open with a bent nail. There wasn't much of a crack between the door and the wall, only enough to slide a few millimeters at a time, and the bolt was heavy enough that if he wasn't pressing at just the right angle the nail would slide instead of moving the bolt.

Harry persisted, counting the seconds in his head as he levered the bolt, hoping each night that he could slip it free before the second hour after sunset. Each time when he failed, he had to painstakingly lever it back into place before allowing himself to sleep - it wouldn't do to raise suspicions.

Finally, the sixth night, the fates seemed to conspire in his favour. Uncle Vernon had gone to bed early with a headache, Aunt Petunia was in the study taking care of accounting, and Dudley had gone to visit one of his friends for the evening. An hour after dark Harry had the cupboard open, slipped out as silently as a serpent and quietly bolted the door behind him. He tiptoed to the back door, left unlocked to await Dudley's return later that night, and slipped out without a sound.

He walked slow and quiet down the walk, his heart pounding with nervousness, staying close to the hedge until he was well out of sight of the upstairs windows in case his aunt happened to glance outside. As soon as Harry was out on the sidewalk, he broke into a run. He had forty minutes by his count, which would be plenty of time to reach the park at a walk, but everything was going so well he was terrified that he would arrive only to find he had missed the allotted time.

Harry had to slow before he was halfway, out of breath. In his desperate desire to reach the park on time, he'd failed to pace himself and pushed much harder than he was used to. He held his side, walked as quickly as he could manage toward his destination. His head ached, the exhaustion pulsing through him as he tried to recover.

He hurried on, tingling with excitement that almost drowned out his weariness. He was going to meet someone else _like him_. Someone with the secret, rare ability that he had only discovered so recently. Another _sliizashisa_ , whatever the strange word meant.

He reached the park, only to be confronted with another problem. It was occupied by dozens of people. Couples, joggers, people waiting for the bus. . .

Harry looked around, tried to see if anything seemed out of place, if there was anyone who gave an indication of being different. No one within his sight seemed unusual.

He walked toward the center of the park, looking around slowly and carefully, suddenly acutely aware that he was out alone at night. Even Dudley wasn't supposed to be this far from home alone. It wasn't _safe_.

"Are you lost, dear?"

Harry jumped at the voice, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He whirled to face the woman who'd spoken. "No! I'm meeting someone. He should be right over there. Thank you."

He gestured vaguely toward the other end of the park, ducked away from her and ran.

What was he thinking coming out here on the word of a snake?

Snake.

He stopped short, knelt on the ground, looked around. _"Hello,"_ he hissed quietly. _"Anyone down here? Can you tell me where master-not-master is?"_

 _"I'm right here,"_ came a voice, quiet, hissing, but distinctly human.

Harry straightened, turned slowly. His forehead was aching worse now, exhaustion and fear and something more.

A man stood there, cloaked in black. The first thing Harry noticed was the bright green stone in the heavy gold ring on the man's hand, before his gaze traveled up to the hooded face. What little Harry could see appeared much younger than Uncle Vernon or his occasional visitors. The man was probably in his thirties. His lips were curved up in a gentle smile. "Greetings, fellow Heir," he whispered, still in that hissing voice that Harry knew instinctively was the same as serpents spoke.

"Heir to the snakes, the _sliizashisa_?" Harry asked. His heart was still pounding, Harry felt his hands trembling with nervousness. He didn't want to seem ignorant, but he wanted information, and he had the horrible feeling that with this man he would not get a second chance at. . . anything.

The man's smile changed, a tempered curious look. "Heir of Slytherin," he translated. "Though to a snake, the word you are saying means only Slytherin, and you are too young to have been Sorted."

Harry did not understand this at all. "You wanted to meet me?" he asked, looking down at the man's ring again, his voice faint. "I don't want to bother you with too many questions."

"It is no bother, young Heir. We must get to know one another very well, after all."

Harry felt a shiver run through him, starting at his forehead and slipping icily down his whole body. "Why?" he asked, unable to manage more than the single word. He was suddenly very afraid of this man, and cursed himself for rushing off to a secret meeting like this at night.

"Don't be afraid. Look into my eyes."

Harry slowly raised his head. The man had pushed his hood back a bit, exposing the rest of his face. It was not a sinister face at all, he looked kindly, though a bit stern. His smile shifted again, becoming almost sad.

"I am a teacher at an exclusive boarding school," the man said, his eyes searching Harry's. "My name is Quirinus Quirrell. I have reason to believe that you will shortly be extended an invitation to attend this school. As I am a professor there and you have had no exposure to our world, I thought it wise to come and introduce you to the truth in person."

He gestured with one hand, and a large snake's head emerged from his sleeve. "This is Nagini, my close friend and confidant. It is she who worked tirelessly on my behalf to arrange this meeting."

 _"Greetings, smaller-master,"_ she hissed, bobbing her head respectfully to Harry.

Harry nodded back. _"I'm pleased to meet you, Nagini."_ The fear was seeping out of him now, but that only brought the evening chill to his notice. Harry wished he had a coat.

Quirinus Quirrell seemed to notice his discomfort. "Oh, how foolish of me. Here, let me. . ." He turned to the side, moved his arm in a careful motion, then pulled a thick cloak of dark fabric that matched his own out from his other sleeve. He held this out to Harry. "Do you want to walk, or sit down?" he asked. "This conversation could take some time."

Harry wrapped the cloak around himself, warm and comfortable. He glanced over, saw an empty park bench nearby. "We could sit," he offered tentatively.

The professor smiled, and Harry wondered what other things he hid in those big sleeves of his. Nagini slithered out and off into the darkness, to hunt for her dinner if Harry's guess was correct. He usually was, with snakes. He had much experience with them and good instincts.

They crossed to the bench, sat down.

"I am sure you have a great many questions already, young Harry," the professor said, folding his hands in his lap. "You may ask them whenever you wish, I shan't think less of you for the curiosity. I am a teacher first and foremost, and an eager mind full of questions is one of the greatest gifts a teacher can find in a student."

Harry nodded, but wasn't ready to speak yet.

They sat in silence a moment, then the professor continued before the quiet could grow uncomfortable. "You have spoken with snakes for several months now," he said. "And from what they tell me, you have tried to converse with them for as long as you've been living here. Why?"

"Well, sir, they were always around. I wasn't allowed a real pet, so I got used to them, and they seemed so much more faithful. They're. . ."

Harry's words stopped, he found he couldn't explain his emotions.

"I understand," the professor said softly. "I too lived a lonely childhood. It was my greatest joy to discover the simple, undemanding friendship of serpentkind. We two, alone in this generation, understand what a true gift we have been given."

"Are we the only. . ." Harry remembered the translation, "Slytherins in London?"

The professor laughed, softly. "No, that is not the right word. I'm sorry, I forget how much you don't know. Slytherin is a house in my school, one of four, and the surname of its founder. _Heir_ of Slytherin would be the term you are looking for, as serpentkind know only Slytherin's true descendants and consider them as the same thing. But the. . ." he hesitated. "The proper word in our language for people who can talk to snakes is 'parselmouth' and the language and ability to speak it is called 'parseltongue'. And unfortunately for you and I, the ability carries a bit of a stigma in our world."

Harry sat quiet for a long moment, absorbing this.

"What kind of stigma?" he asked at length. He'd never heard of a parselmouth, but then his social education was hardly the most extensive. Dudley saw to that.

The professor sighed. "Unfortunately, the founder of Slytherin house, our great-ancestor and the one from whom the parseltongue ability is passed, after the founding of. . . the school, was cast out after an argument with his fellow-founders. The three who remained passed down their ancient feud, with the result that Slytherin's house is seen as corrupt, manipulative, and even evil. Perception can shift reality, and sadly the members of the house accepted and conformed to the way they were seen. Not completely, of course, there are still those of strength and cunning, who properly carry on Slytherin's legacy. Myself, the head of house Severus Snape, a handful of others."

"I understand," Harry said quietly, staring at his feet. When outnumbered, forced into a role, you accepted it or paid for it. The fact that these 'Slytherins' had been forced into a role that brought dishonor upon their ancestor was a terrible tragedy.

Harry looked up. "You said we were _Heirs_. Do you mean that we are actually related to Slytherin's line somehow?"

"Yes. Well. . ." again the professor hesitated, as though changing what he'd been about to say. "There are many who are related to his line, he lived centuries ago, but you and I are the only two in whom his gift for parseltongue manifested. Therefore, we are the closest to his bloodline, his true heirs. And those to whom serpentkind will lend obedience and trust."

"It's very rare," Harry asked. "The ability to talk to snakes?"

"Incredibly rare. Even among. . . those related, it has only shown itself in me, and now you, in recent decades."

Harry nodded. "And people will think I'm. . . evil if they find out about it?"

The professor was silent a long moment. "Yes." he said. "There are those, Slytherins of the old families, believers in our true calling, who would honour you for the gift. But they are few. Until we reach the school, until you are Sorted, I would suggest that you are very careful not to use your ability before others. Once you have a safe place there, we can discuss the future in greater detail."

"You've said that twice now, 'Sorted,' like it's something important."

The professor chuckled. "I think it is time I told you the full depth of your inheritance. You see, Harry, the ability to talk with snakes is not the only special thing about you. I am going to show you something. It may scare you, but please trust me and do not make a scene. Can you do that?"

Harry nodded slowly. The professor pulled a thin wooden rod from his sleeve. "Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of the rod began to glow. Harry waited.

"Serpensortia," the professor said, and a spectral serpent appeared from thin air, as though it were a hologram drawn by the rod's glowing tip, then solidified and dropped to the ground with a quiet hiss.

Harry blinked. "You're some kind of magician," he whispered. "How did you do that?"

The professor's smile twisted, as though he were displeased. "Stupefy," he snapped, and a red bolt of light shot out from his rod, hit the coiling snake. The creature fell limp, then disintegrated.

Harry leapt to his feet, but stopped himself from shrieking, held his silence until he could speak with a modicum of calmness. His whisper was harsh, but not carrying. "You killed it!"

The professor's smile tightened. "It was not real. Serpensortia."

Another snake, perfectly identical to the first. Drawn on the air like a shimmer of light, then it solidified and dropped to the ground.

"This is not a trick," the professor said quietly. "This is a true power. The snake is a magical construct which will obey my commands until I release the spell or it is hit with a disruptive or hostile magic. It cannot pass through items, once conjured it is corporeal, but it has no mind or spirit beyond pure command. In this, constructs are inferior to living animals who have a tiny spark of their own intelligence, amplified and brought to sentience by our magic."

"That's not possible," Harry whispered.

The professor waved his wand again, wordlessly, in a complex pattern. The snake on the ground trembled, shrank and expanded, reshaped itself and shimmered until it was a silver goblet. The professor picked it up, handed it to Harry. "I can change it to anything," he said quietly. "What would it take to convince you?"

Harry stared at the goblet, once a snake conjured from the air. He didn't know much about magic tricks, but he took a few steps away from the professor to be sure he wasn't going to swap it away quickly. "Change it back to a snake," he said. The cup trembled, Harry _felt_ it in his hands as the silvery surface morphed into scales, as it unwound into the same snake that the professor had disintegrated earlier.

"Are you alive?" Harry whispered to it.

The snake looked at him expectantly, but did not reply. It _felt_ unnatural, like something essential was missing from it, some tiny spark of mental connection that could be sensed in all living creatures and was inexplicably absent. Harry shuddered, dropped it to the ground.

"Finite," the professor said, and the snake simply vanished.

"True power?" Harry asked, trembling.

This was too much, too strange, too _right_.

It made perfect sense. It was ridiculous. He didn't understand.

"We call ourselves wizards," Quirrell said, his voice cutting through Harry's confusion. "Snakes call us _wizshis_ in respect of our name. We are a tiny, tiny portion of the populace, a hidden community that is largely separate from the. . . non-magical folk of the world. Your aunt, uncle, cousin - they have no gift for magic. They are worthless, as I am sure you have seen. The school I work for is called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We teach young wizards and witches - witch is the female variant of wizard - like yourself how to use their power."

Harry wanted to protest that he had no power, but he could remember too many strange and unbelievable experiences throughout the past year. While one part of him wanted to run home and lock himself in his cupboard and never see another _wizard_ again, the much larger part of him reached out for the knowledge like a plant reaches for the sun.

He _was_ special. The Dursleys knew it, and hated him for it. He looked up, met the professor's eyes. "I believe you," he said.

"Those without magic," the professor whispered, stepping closer, "we call them 'muggles'. The word in itself is not an insult, nor a compliment. Merely a fact. Like many words, though, it can be used in many ways."

"Muggle," Harry whispered, the word carrying a harsh edge as he pictured the title applied to his relatives. He smiled, decided he liked the fit of it. "Muggles."

"Muggles are weaker than wizards, in body and mind and spirit. While I do not blame them for their nature, they are still beings with the ability of choice. And their choices have shown me that they are unfailingly petty and foolish creatures."

Quirrell met Harry's eyes again. "I wish with all my heart that you need not stay in their presence another minute. If I could take you away this very night, bring you to Hogwarts which is my true home, I would do so. But you are legally under the care of another wizard, whose will it has been that you remain with your 'blood relatives' for no better reason than that they share your mother's ancestry."

The professor sounded angry, bitter, as though Harry's experience were somehow his own. He took a breath, slowly, calmly, then reached for Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched instinctively and Quirrell's hand paused, hesitated a few inches away, and he returned it to his opposite sleeve instead.

"I am sorry, Harry," he said softly. "I truly am. I have great power, but I cannot save you from the Dursleys. Not yet."

"I understand," Harry muttered. He hadn't come here expecting to be freed from them, but for a brief moment his hopes had trembled higher, hoping there would be a loophole, something Quirrell could do for him.

The professor took another breath, then his face returned to his half-stern, half-friendly smile. "You must have more questions."

"I am a wizard?" Harry asked, the term feeling strange on his tongue. He felt arrogant saying it, as though he were laying claim to some great legacy, one he didn't think he deserved.

"Not just any wizard," the professor said. "You are of undeniable strength, and bear the legacy of Salazaar Slytherin as strongly as myself. You could be the greatest wizard of your era."

Harry laughed softly. "I doubt that."

"I do not seek to cause undue pride, and I do not deceive you," the professor said, his voice stern. "You have potential for greatness beyond anyone else I have ever met." Quirrell smiled, this time smile seemed secretive, ironic. "You are, in fact, already the most _famous_ wizard of your era," he said more quietly.

Harry laughed again. "Famous, me?"

"Indeed. Wizarding culture is largely separate from the muggle world, we have charms of concealment and so can not be found even by their most advanced technology, so I could understand if you have no knowledge of your true value. Your aunt and uncle did not tell you how your parents died."

It was not a question, but Harry answered anyway. "A car crash," he said.

"Lies," the professor snapped. "Your parents stood in defiance against the greatest force of conquest the wizarding world had seen since the fall of Grindelwald. Wizards also have the capacity for pettiness and folly, you see, and we are more powerful than muggles and thus better at performing such deeds. Lord Voldemort, who sought to claim the wizard's world complete, killed your parents before your eyes when you were but a babe. And in vengeance and power, you destroyed him. That is why you are famous, Harry Potter. That is why you carry that scar like a bolt of lightning hidden upon your forehead. That is why every child born to witches knows your name from the cradle. Because you are their _savior_."

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. "I killed someone when I was only a baby?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not killed. You _destroyed_ him. Your parents bodies lay before your crib, while of Lord Voldemort nothing remained but _ashes_."

Harry shook, suddenly glad that the worst he had done to Dudley was lock him in a cage with a snake. If he had the power to burn people to _ash_ when he was only a baby. . .

"You say this school, Hogwarts, can teach me to control my power?" he asked, desperately. "To use it safely?"

Professor Quirrell chuckled softly. "Yes, my boy." He hesitated, then held out his hand, wooden rod extended. "Take my wand for a moment, it will help show you something."

Harry took it gingerly. "It's cool," he said, surprised. It had been in the professor's hand, in his robes, it should have matched his body temperature.

Quirrell's smile widened. "Yes, very good. That is the first indication that you have the gift, you can feel the power within the wand. Some feel warm, some cool, some sharp or soft or glassy. They do not ever feel wholly natural, there is a power to them that matches to the power within us. Now, this is a simple spell. Hold it up in front of you at this angle," he said, holding his own hand in demonstration.

Harry copied the motion, Quirrell took hold of the wand to adjust his angle. "Now, say 'lumos'."

"Lumos," Harry said.

"No, _lumos_ ," Quirrell repeated. "Not so quickly, use the same timing as mine. 'lumos'."

"Lumos," Harry repeated, and he felt _something_ flicker through him, and a light twinkled for a bare moment at the tip of the wand.

Harry's breath caught. "Lumos," he said again. "Lumos. Lumos. _Lumos_."

Finally the light stayed. Dim, fainter by far than that Quirrell had created, but steady and unflickering.

The professor's grin widened still farther. "I didn't expect you to manage so much," he whispered, holding out his hand. "I had hoped it would reveal the spark within you, but this. . . with a wand not your own, at your young age? You truly deserve the mantle of legend, and I know it will only grow greater as the years progress."

Harry beamed. He had never felt so proud in his life. He handed the wand back to Quirrell, and his light went out. He felt it, knew it with an eighth sense that he couldn't define. He had felt it before, when he vanished the glass at the zoo. When he found himself suddenly safe from Dudley and his gang. But now it was controlled, calm and smooth and readily accessible. Like trapping a thunderstorm's furious rains in a gentle pond.

"True power," he whispered, watching the wand with eager eyes.

"You will have your own wand before you arrive at Hogwarts," the professor assured him. "Every student gets their own, custom suited to their potential. Your wand will grow with you, shift with you, be your closest ally and truest companion. Trust your wand, and it will never fail you. Though wandless magic _can_ be done, accidentally or occasionally intentionally, use of a wand allows greater strength and near-perfect control in your spellwork."

Harry nodded, his heart beating fast at the memory of the _magic_ that had suffused him, visible like a sound that pulsed through his whole being, inexplicable and pure and deep and _his_.

Then a thought came to him, and his hopes plummeted. "I have no fund for schooling," he said dejectedly. "I was to attend the local high school, there's no way my aunt and uncle will pay for a specialty school like Hogwarts."

"Do you think the gratitude of the entire wizarding world is worth so little?" Quirrell asked, that ironic tone back in his voice. "You are not only famous, Harry, you are wealthy beyond the imagination of most young men your age. Your Hogwarts tuition could be paid a hundred times over and still leave you spending money for life."

Harry blinked, truly taken aback. His dead hopes began to flutter back to life. "Truly?" he asked, voice trembling.

"I told you, I will not lie to you," Quirrell said. "Another wizard holds legal custody of your vaults until you come of age, but he has as much of an interest in you attending Hogwarts as I do. Money will not be an obstacle."

Harry cast his memory back, tried to remember what questions he still had. He had so much new knowledge, piling on top of itself, he felt overwhelmed.

"I should return to the school," the professor said quietly, looking into Harry's eyes. "I know it is hard for you to escape, but will you meet me here again? You will have more questions, and there is much more you do not even know yet to ask which you should know before you come to us. It would be harmful to your reputation should you arrive ignorant."

"I don't deserve a reputation," Harry said, still a little uncomfortable at the idea of notoriety. He'd always worked hard to _avoid_ being noticed. Standing out was a sure way to invite trouble.

"You do." Quirrell's voice was firm, unwavering. "Of anyone I have met, you are the one with the most potential. Do not put yourself down, it does no good to yourself or others. You must learn to embrace your strength, the power of your name and reputation. Strength in magic is not the only thing of value within the wizarding community, and you stand in a very good position to monopolize on several—" he cut off, tilted his head as though hearing a voice from far away, grimaced. "I must go now," he said. "Can you meet me again?"

"I will try," Harry said. "As soon as possible."

Quirrell nodded. "If I am not here, ask after Nagini. I will try to send her if I cannot wait for you myself."

He strode quickly away, calling in a low hiss for his snake companion. She emerged from the darkness, her dark outline slithering behind the professor like a second shadow.

Harry sat down on the bench, and only then realized that he still wore the professor's spare cloak. He jumped up, intending to return it, but as he turned the man and snake vanished with a crack like soft thunder.

Harry slowly sank back down to his seat, closed his eyes. So much to absorb. A whole world he'd never known existed.

The feel of power. The promise of more. Power and wealth and status. This had to be a dream, Harry decided, but he opened his eyes and found that he still sat on the park bench. The paths were emptier now than when he'd arrived, the bus station quiet and dark. A pair of girls walked by together, heads close, talking about something that made them giggle.

Harry knew he should go home, but he wanted to stay here until he could finish processing what he'd been told. He knew that the moment he set foot back in the Dursley's home he would slip back into himself, into the quiet submissive Harry who was not rich or famous or powerful. He would cower, he would fetch, he would run, he would hide.

He gripped the cloak's edge tightly, the fabric a tangible reminder of the truth.

He did not need to fear _muggles_. He was a wizard.

He sat several more minutes until, mind settled, he stood and set out toward Privet Drive. He had lost track of time, had no idea how long it had been that he sat and talked with Professor Quirrell.

He hoped the door would still be unlocked. He could probably jigger the back window, they left it open a crack for airflow to the furnace and he was _probably_ skinny enough to slip through into the basement. The door at the top of the stairs would be locked, but it would be easier to get through than the front door with actual security systems on it.

He cringed, imagining the Dursleys' reaction if they caught him setting off the alarms in the middle of the night.

 _Wizard. Power._

He shook his head. Not yet. He couldn't afford to think like that, not for real, not yet. When he was with the professor, when he was at Hogwarts, then he could be strong. Right now, he needed to _survive_.

He was lost in his thoughts as he turned down the familiar street, neared the drive to Number Four. He didn't notice the car pull up alongside him until it was too late.

"Well, well, well, look what we have _here_ ," came the last voice Harry wanted to hear. "My stupid cousin, out walking alone at night? And why do you have a blanket over you? It makes you look even dumber than usual."

The car's back door opened, pushed by Malcolm, one of Dudley's friends. "Get in, _Potter_ ," he said, leering.

"My house is right there," Harry said, not trying to hide the tremble in his voice. "I don't need a ride for twenty feet."

"Is your friend coming, or not?" asked Malcolm's father from the front of the car. "You're letting all the heat out."

Dudley sneered at Harry. "Coming?"

Harry wanted to run, but he knew Dudley would be waiting for him by the time he reached Number Four. He couldn't stop imagining what terrible punishments his aunt and uncle could devise. He had never in his entire life broken so many rules as he had this night, nothing he said or did could save him at this point. He climbed into the car, pulled the door closed, buckled his seatbelt. His stomach felt like he had swallowed his heart.

Malcolm sat very close to him, pressed him up against the door, whispered threats of violence in Harry's ear, laughed at him. Harry tried to ignore him, didn't try to resist. They pulled into the drive. Dudley threw the door open the moment the car stopped, ran around and yanked Harry's door open just as fast, so quickly that if Harry hadn't been buckled in he would have fallen on his face. Malcolm snickered, hit the release, and Harry flopped out onto the ground. He disentangled himself from the seatbelt, got to his feet.

"Thank you for the ride," he said quietly to Malcolm's father. The man gave a brusque nod, then Malcolm shut the door with one last sneer. The car backed up, its headlights swept across the yard, then the sound and light of it faded into the distance and left Harry and Dudley alone.

"So, _cousin_ ," Dudley said, grinning evilly. He smacked one hand against the other as if in warmup.

Harry stood frozen, his eyes inexorably drawn toward the movement of Dudley's fist. He felt sick, but didn't dare speak, didn't dare move.

Dudley took a step forward, loomed over Harry. "You were meant to be locked safely in your cupboard. So what are you doing out on the streets alone at this time of night? Huh? You think my dad will let you get away with this? You think _I_ will?"

Harry could have said a dozen things. He had a glib insult ready, could easily have pretended to compliment Dudley's sudden increase in vocabulary. His voice was stuck somewhere between his throat and his stomach. He said nothing, tensed for the blow he _knew_ was coming.

"Brat thinks the world is his to play with, huh?" Dudley demanded.

Harry wasn't listening, he was watching the hands.

"I think you need to learn a few important life lessons in _respect_ ," Dudley said, and his fist came up.

Harry could have run, if he hadn't been frozen with fear. He knew that whatever Dudley did to him was only a precursor to what Uncle Vernon's punishment would be. Though the more Dudley hit him, the less likely Vernon would. It was a worthwhile tradeoff.

He tried to believe that. But amid the fear and pain, a glimmer of light shone in his mind like hope in a stained glass window. Professor Quirrell's promise that he could attend Hogwarts.

 _They're only muggles. I won't be here forever. Wizards are better than this._

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

This chapter has undergone some minor revision 7-9-17; nothing substantial was changed, I just tweaked the wording on some awkward sentences and switched to using _"quotes with italics"_ to indicate parseltongue. (Note that not all italicized words within quotes are parseltongue, only italic text within italic quotes.) _  
_


	4. A Meeting At Midnight

_A Meeting At Midnight_

* * *

Dudley paraded about the house in his Smeltings uniform, which Harry privately believed had been created solely for the purpose of training people to look pompous despite the fact that anyone they met would laugh uncontrollably. He couldn't imagine any other reason for the mix of colour and styles, unless the first class of Smeltings had just gotten a really good deal on boater hats and orange knickerbockers.

Two more weeks had passed since his conversation with the Hogwarts professor in the park, and Harry's cupboard had been upgraded with sliding bars and a padlock. His bedtime was now 'the minute the dinner dishes are done' and he was no longer permitted breakfasts, but on the whole he felt he'd gotten off well. The meeting had been worth it, worth every hungry morning and early imprisonment at night.

His rusty nail could not move the bars, and he certainly had no way to reach the padlock. However, he had a new hope now.

 _Magic_. Professor Quirrell had said it could be done wandlessly accidentally _or intentionally_. Harry knew the feel of it now, knew the extra layer of power that lived within every bit of him, he just had to figure out how to bring it to the surface without the amplicative abilities of a wand, break open the bars, and get away.

Despite starting the moment he was locked in for the night and not stopping until he was too tired to carry on, in the two weeks since his last escape his progress had been decidedly disappointing. No amount of wishing, willing, desperate hopes, or quiet meditation had been sufficient.

Wandless magic was _hard_ , and he didn't even really know what he was doing. If not for Quirrell's word, he would have given up. But he was determined. He _would_ get away again.

He had questions, whole nests of them. _Slytherin_ was a House at Hogwarts, one of four - what were the others? The professor had been sidetracked and never actually told him what 'Sorting' was, or how it was important. Where was he to get a wand? When would the school year at Hogwarts begin? How would he get there, did he need to buy a plane ticket or something? Why had he been sent to live with muggles who hated him if he was so rich and famous? Surely _someone_ in the wizard world had wanted him?

That thought always flatlined his eager curiosity. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his cupboard. Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, unwanted and foisted off on muggles who _couldn't_ be rid of him because they were his relatives and there were laws. The wizards wanted a legend, not the nuisance of a boy.

 _"Am I unwanted?"_ he whispered to the brown snake that lay half-asleep on his stomach. He had always known before that he wasn't wanted, but that one night in the park he'd been so full of hope and imagination, so sure that any day a wizard would come whisk him away to a safe place where he was celebrated.

But if they cared so much, why hadn't they come before _now_?

 _"We want you,"_ the snake replied simply. _"If you speak of your own kind, we do not know. Master-not-master wants you, but cannot have you because of the interference of The Watcher."_

 _"The Watcher?"_ Harry asked, leaning forward. He had asked before what the 'not-master' part added to Quirrell's serpent name meant, but the snakes only said that was who he was and they could not call him otherwise. He'd never heard this term before, was it someone who could hear snakes and not speak to them perhaps?

The snake rolled its body in what Harry had come to interpret as a shrug. _"Master-not-master calls the one who controls you The Watcher. It is The Watcher who keeps your home concealed from master-not-master, why he cannot come to you here and you must instead go to him."_

Harry relaxed back. _"That makes sense,"_ he said quietly. _"He mentioned that my affairs were legally under the control of another wizard."_

He turned his head, concentrated on the bars outside. The padlock. He tried to will them away, to make them vanish like the glass at the zoo had. He tried to pull up that feeling in his mind, throughout himself, to let the magic suffuse him.

Nothing. _Nothing_.

He tensed with frustration, wanted to scream, wanted to smash his fists against the door. But that would be disruptive to the Dursleys' lives, and he would be punished more. He pressed his eyes shut tight, screamed inside his mind instead. Days upon days of fruitless effort, the pain of desperation and constant failure compiled together into a dark rush of despair and self-loathing.

Harry trembled with the emotional power unable to find an outlet, screamed silently against the injustice of the world.

Harry shook with suppressed sobbing, tears stinging his eyes.

A surprised hiss came from the snake on his chest, it slithered away as though affronted.

Harry pushed himself onto his elbows, watched the snake's movement. He was angry at himself for scaring his friend away, but noticed the slight shift in the light through the crack in the cupboard door.

The bars were _gone_.

He sat up straighter, pressed his ear against the door. The house was quiet. He slid the simple latch up, then pushed the door open. The padlock hung on the bar, which simply _stopped_ before reaching the cupboard door. The other end was still there as well, but the center section where it actually blocked the door was just gone.

Harry's frustration completely vanished in a burst of adrenaline and ecstasy. He had finally done it!

He restrained his excitement, not wanting to betray himself with the slightest noise. He needed to get away from the house, and be able to get back in. Dudley wasn't out, so all the doors would be locked. He didn't know the code for the security system. That left the basement window. He could leave the _basement_ door unlocked without anyone being alerted, Uncle Vernon had been unwilling to pay for security on a door that wouldn't pose a threat because everyone would believe he had security on all entrances.

Harry tiptoed across the kitchen, pulled slowly and carefully on the latch. It let out a tiny squeak. It made him jump, but he was standing close enough he didn't think it would be noticed upstairs. He pulled the door open a centimeter at a time, slow, gradually, agonizingly slow, but he forced down his excitement and maintained the steady pace. Once it was open enough, he slipped through and pulled it shut behind him just as slowly and carefully. His heart was racing with excitement and worry.

The latch barely clicked as he let it fall back in place.

Letting out a breath, he started down the stairs. The eighth one creaked the moment he put weight on it and he froze. Silence. A single quiet drip of condensation from a pipe. Silence. He leaned the rest of his weight on the step, which groaned quietly, but it wasn't nearly as loud. He moved very slowly down the steps, testing each one before moving forward.

He had no idea of the time, two days into his trials at wandless magic he had stopped counting in favour of devoting full attention to his attempts at bringing the magic out.

Harry reached the window, but it was several feet above his head. He stood on his toes and still couldn't reach it. He looked around in the darkness. The faint illumination from the streetlight outside didn't show much besides the outline of the window painted on the floor in light. It didn't reflect enough to show the contents of the basement.

He had been down enough times to be familiar with the general layout, but not recently. The Dursleys were not fastidious about rooms which did not entertain guests, and Harry worried that if he moved about carelessly he would trip or knock something over. Any sound he made would destroy his chances utterly. Uncle Vernon would think of an even more intricate way of keeping him in, and he didn't know if he'd be able to use wandless magic the same way again. His previous incidents had always been at least ten days apart, and none of those were focused or deliberate.

He couldn't afford to think about that yet. He _would_ get away, he would return before anyone knew he was gone, and he would somehow reverse whatever magic he had done on the bars. Or at least he hoped it was reversible. If he couldn't change it back, he could imagine the Dursleys' wrath. They would know he had done something unnatural.

Harry went down on his hands and knees, felt his way forward across the basement. The worn carpeting was rough against his hands, faintly damp with the night air. He found a pair of laundry baskets, but he knew they wouldn't support his weight without crumpling or breaking. Next he reached a collection of short boards from Uncle Vernon's attempts to improve the house against snake intrusion. They would be perfect to build a step stool, but Harry had neither the time nor skills for such a project.

Behind the boards, Harry found his uncle's toolboxes. He ran a hand blindly along the first, testing the give of its lid and the weight of the material. It was hefty, meant to carry significant weight without bending. He stepped tentatively onto it, guessed he would need three to make a step and reach the window. They were heavy, but Harry was used to doing hard things without complaint or argument. He felt around the toolboxes and tried to memorize where they were stacked. He had to put everything back as close to the exact same position as he could. No one could know he was sneaking out.

It took him probably twenty minutes to drag the toolboxes over to the window, then stack the third atop the other two to make a step. The box was too heavy for him to fully lift to the top, so he had to put one end up and lever it from there. And of course the moment he lifted the edge, all the contents shifted with a clatter.

Harry froze, terrified. He wanted to drop the toolbox and run back to his cupboard, but he was in too far to go back now. He waited, heartbeat racing in his ears, straining for the sound of his uncle storming down the stairs in search of the intruder. . .

No sound. No reply. If they had heard it, they must have discounted it as coming from a neighbor's house. Harry lifted the end again, the clatter softer this time as most of the tools had already shifted, set it atop the other two, levered it into place.

He carefully climbed up, wary in case his weight shifted anything or made the pile unstable, but his ascent produced no response from the stacked toolboxes.

Harry reached up, wiggled the window open. He could get his arm out to the elbow if he stood on his toes. It took a good ten minutes of straining and wriggling, but he finally rolled out the window onto the yard outside.

He lay there for a long minute, staring at the stars, exhaling his exhaustion. Climbing up out a window used completely different muscles than he was used to employing in his chores or daily flights from Dudley.

Once Harry had recovered, he crept down the drive, painstakingly slowly, until he was out of sight of Number Four's windows, then broke into a run.

He didn't run as fast or recklessly as he had the first time, maintained his outrunning-Dudley-without-exhaustion pace the whole way to the park.

It was dark, long since empty of any visitors. He crossed to their bench, shivering against the night chill. The Dursleys had confiscated the cloak the professor had lent him, and knowing them had probably burnt it or torn it into rags. He glanced around, then leaned down to the ground.

 _"Nagini? Are you around?"_

He waited a few minutes for a reply, then stood again and set off down the pathway. He paused every few minutes, quietly called out for the professor's snake friend, but neither Nagini nor her master were in evidence.

Harry's heart sank. All that effort, all that time, and he had come too late. If he stayed through the day, waited to meet them the next evening, there would be no concealing his absense. The Dursleys would know what he had done, and how he had escaped. They would lock the basement door with a padlock, board up his cupboard door each night, seal the window so it couldn't open fully. . . he couldn't stay. Even if he was caught trying to escape his cupboard, he couldn't let them know how he could leave the house.

 _"Does anyone here know Nagini?"_ he whispered, low to the ground. There were few snakes out this time of night, but one did slither toward him.

 _"Nagini and master-not-master send message for master,"_ the snake hissed. _"Master-not-master and Nagini needed for long time. Not able to come back, The Watcher is suspicious."_

Harry had thought his hopes couldn't be dashed any farther. He'd been wrong. He shivered again, tears blurring his eyes. "They're not coming back?" he asked, tremulously. He realized that he'd been speaking in English, switched to parseltongue to repeat the question.

 _"Master-not-master is sorry, he knows it hurts you for him to leave. But it would hurt you both if The Watcher knew you had met. He says he will meet you in diagonally, send word to him when you are to purchase your school things and he will be waiting for you in town."_

The word 'diagonally' was obviously a mistranslation, but Harry didn't have context to place it properly. There were too many alternate possible words, and he still didn't entirely understand how snake minds worked.

 _"Thank you,"_ Harry said, his voice as dull and empty as his heart. He had risked so much, worked so hard, and he had _missed_ him. _"How long ago was master-not-master here last?"_

 _"Two mornings ago he left this message for you in the north. We would have brought it to your nest in another morning, but you came here first."_

Harry nodded numbly. Two days too late. One day too early. He would have gotten the message without needing to sneak out. The whole thing was for _nothing_. Another tear dripped down his cheek. He shivered, hugged his arms across his chest, and began running back to Privet Drive. He didn't try to stop crying, at least out here alone he could give voice to his anguish. He'd been this way enough times with Dudley he didn't need to look where he was going. Once he was nearer home, he'd have to return to being silent and meek.

He found that beneath the fear and despair, there was something else building quietly within him. Anger. Whoever this Watcher was, he had a lot to answer for. If he was in charge of Harry's affairs in the wizard world, why hadn't he come around? Why hadn't he taken Harry away from here? Why was he keeping away the one person in his life who actually seemed to _care_ about Harry's life?

In a way, it was worse than never having anyone. Hope had been extended, a promise of aid. And then this Watcher had to ruin everything. Keeping his one advocate away from his home wasn't enough, now he had to prevent their meeting at all?

Harry's sobs quieted, his fists tightened. Professor Quirrell had promised that this other wizard wanted him at Hogwarts too, so at least this school year he would be free of Dudley, free of the Dursleys, away where he could learn to control his true power. Wasn't that hope enough? A boarding school for wizards, someplace he could make friends without them fearing retribution from his cousin and his thugs, someplace he could find who he really was when not suppressed and hounded.

That was enough. He didn't need more. He didn't _need_ answers to everything from his professor before the term began, once he arrived at Hogwarts there would be plenty of time for the two of them to talk.

Reason wasn't enough to stifle his deep disappointment completely, but as he ran he felt the cool night air whipping against him shift his perceptions. He could survive a few months more, and then he would be away, away for so long it might as well be forever.

He rounded the corner to Privet Drive and nearly collided with Mrs. Figg.

"Oh, there you are, dear," she said softly, catching his shoulders as he nearly toppled over in shock. "Are you feeling alright?"

Harry blinked up at her in confusion. "What are you doing out this late?" he asked, puzzled.

"I just got an owl, someone was worried about you."

"An owl?" Harry asked incredulously, unsure what this had to do with anything. He'd always thought Mrs. Figg was a bit mad, with her house smelling of cabbage and her obsession with cats.

"Yes, dear. Do come inside."

Harry wriggled away from her hands, backed up a step. "It's very late, I should be getting home."

Mrs. Figg's lips tightened, as though she were displeased. "Harry," she said softly. "I want you to know that you're always welcome to come over. I have watched you grow up and. . . well, it isn't my place to criticise, but you have not had a very happy childhood. I give you my word, I will allow no harm to come to you if it is in my power to prevent it. If you ever need a safe place for a few hours, for a few days, my door is open to you."

Harry blinked. He was confused and a bit taken aback by this.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

Mrs. Figg shook her head. "It would be better if we got indoors out of the cold. It's only just midnight, you've hours yet before your aunt and uncle wake up. I have a letter for you, and there are some things I can tell you now that you know the truth."

Harry felt an eager shiver go through him. He knew immediately what 'truth' he now knew, the truth about the wizard world hidden alongside the muggle reality he'd always known. It could be nothing else.

"Did Professor Quirrell contact you?" he asked. "Is that who was worried?"

Mrs. Figg nodded. "He said you would probably be running past my house within the hour, that I should invite you in and explain as much as I could. It's not a lot, mind, I am very out of touch with. . . well, come inside first, then we can talk freely."

"Are you a witch, then?" Harry asked in a whisper.

Mrs. Figg shook her head, a sad look passing across her face. "No, dear. I'm a squib. It's what we call non-magic people born into a magic family. It's not a common affliction, thank goodness, but it is mine. I've never quite fit into either world."

She opened her front door, ushered Harry into its inviting warm interior, and for once he didn't really mind the smell of cabbages. She hung up her coat, set her handbag on a waiting table with the exact same steps she always used. Harry smiled faintly at that, strangely reassured by the familiar movement of his oft-babysitter. She was the same confusing woman whether she knew about wizards or not.

Harry slipped off his shoes as she changed out of her boots, followed her into the sitting room. Ornamented frames lined the mantle, pictures of her many cats over the years arrayed in careful precision. Though much of the house had thin layers of dust covering everything and rooms frequently had wisps of only partly removed spiderweb hanging from the corners, the mantle was always freshly dusted.

It made Harry sad, thinking about Mrs. Figg being as unsuited for the muggle world as he, and not even able to escape to the wizard world. No wonder she had only her succession of cats for company.

She picked up a thick envelope from the table. "There you are, dear. Once you've read it, I'll be happy to answer any questions you might have as far as I'm able."

The envelope was addressed simply, 'Harry Potter', no street name or box number. He accepted it almost reverently. He had never gotten mail before, not even a solicitation. He might as well not have existed as far as the rest of the world were concerned.

The envelope was of a thick parchment-like paper, probably the most expensive paper he'd ever seen. The letter inside was the same material, Harry was disappointed to find it was only a single page. The thickness of the envelope was all due to the weight of the page.

Both the envelope and the paper inside were addressed in bright green ink, shimmering slightly as though it hadn't quite dried yet, but it was not wet nor did it smudge when he ran a finger over it curiously.

He held the folded letter for a long minute, staring at it. Mrs. Figg set about making a pot of tea, weak nasty stuff that he'd always thought tasted like hay. She didn't interrupt his reverie, humming to herself in a quiet voice that only made him feel less alone.

The letterhead was a shield crest divided in fourths, a different creature in each. Snake, badger, lion, raven. Harry placed a finger lightly on the snake. He knew what that represented. Slytherin, his legacy. He stared for a long moment, then moved on to the letter's text.

 _Harry,_

 _I'm sorry I couldn't meet you in person. I'm sure you had a beastly time getting away, and I wish I didn't have to disappoint you like this. As you may have heard, I've been unavoidably detained with school affairs and legal matters. It also seems some have taken issue with my attempts to contact you, and any future trips to your area would be detected and monitored. For your safety as well as my own, we must now conduct our affairs at a distance until you arrive here in September._

 _Arabella is trustworthy, she has been positioned as your gatekeeper for many years now. As any attempt to contact you at your relatives' house is diverted either by your muggle guardians or the spells placed there by your magical watcher, I will send any letters for you to her and you can reply through her as well._

 _If there is anything you need, anything at all, tell me and I will do my best to get it to you. I can't do anything about your relatives, unfortunately. The magical law is firm upon where that decision lies, and your custodian is adamant that their home is the best place for you. I strenuously object to such base treatment of a wizard before whom your relatives would barely rank as capable slaves, much less guardians, but I am in no position to change the state of affairs. Again, you have my sincerest sympathy and I only wish I could do more._

Harry had to stop reading for a moment. Though he'd thought himself through with crying for the night, he felt tears of relief in his eyes. He wasn't forgotten. Someone _cared_ about what happened to him.

He accepted the handkerchief Mrs. Figg silently dropped beside him as she walked past with her tea, brought himself under control, turned the page over and resumed reading.

 _I look forward to teaching you this year, I have an advanced curriculum drawn up in case you're interested in individual tutoring. Since most wizarding children have the advantage of growing up in our world, there is too much to tell you in a letter, or even in a week of discussion. I had hoped to catch you up to the present before the school term began, but I'm afraid you'll have to get by on your own until September._

 _Remember, you are famous and powerful in our world. Everyone will know you, accept their gratitude with dignity and poise. Try not to let it go to your head. Try to see past the fawning to who can be a genuine help to you in future and who would just ride your coattails in hopes of your greatness somehow rubbing off on them by association._

 _Speak vaguely when possible, try not to promise_ _anything __to_ _anyone_ _until you know exactly what you are committing to. This is important, more so to a wizard. Your word must be your bond, you must act with care, and you must not lightly promise things now that may come back to entangle you in future years._

 _I wish I could teach you in person, you can't imagine how sorry I am not to be able to see you again for so long. Until then, be strong, be cunning, and stay in touch._

 _Your friend,_

 _Professor Quirinus Quirrell_

Harry found new tears slipping down his cheek, one dripped onto the letter but the ink didn't smudge even then.

 _Your friend_. No one had ever said those words to him before.

Harry held the letter tight to his chest, wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. He looked over to Mrs. Figg, who was pouring out the tea for the two of them.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, dear."

He didn't mean the tea, but he couldn't put his thoughts into words just then.

He took the warm drink, sipped at it, and found its weak grassy flavour somehow pleasing today. As though the unexpected glow of happiness within him made everything around him better by association.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _I've been a bit stuck in this story for a while, apologies for the update delay. I'm tentatively scheduling Shadow of the Past updates for the 14th and 28th of each month moving forward, but the chapter lengths will probably be wildly varied due to various things._

 _I'm still in rough-draft zone, and I must remind you all that there is a good chance that in the next couple years this whole thing will have a drastic overhaul. In the meantime, of course, please let me know what you like or dislike. This is my first serious HP fic and I want to do it well. :)_

 _News on Heir of Darkness as a whole: I have expanded my original ideas to include an eighth book after Harry graduates, which I remind you that I am not actually promising to write. Also,_ _due to timeline conflicts,_ _what was originally Book Two had to be switched with Book Three. I don't know how that will shift around the plan, if such a vague notion could be called a plan. But that's a problem for another day; right now I need to figure out my very very broken book one here. :p_

 _I'm having a hard time moving forward; this month and last month are always hard creatively. I think I've started to get my focus back, but as you may have noticed if following me instead of this project, that focus was redirected in a singularly bizarre direction._

 _This week I'm planning to work mostly on my KotOR fics, specifically Double Blind which I have no backup chapters left for. After that, we'll have to wait and see._

 _General query, though: Do you prefer more frequent/shorter updates, or infrequent/longer updates? Ideal chapter length for you as a reader?_

 _Thanks for reading!_


	5. Tea and Questions

_Tea and Questions_

* * *

"I expect you have questions," Mrs. Figg said at length, when their teacups were near to empty.

There was a quiet pause, comfortable.

"Did you ever attend Hogwarts?" Harry asked at last, his voice faint.

"No. Squibs can't do magic, so I never got my invitation. My family were disappointed, of course, but nothing to what I felt." She shook her head. "Those were trying times, I was a young emotional mess."

"So you don't know much about it?"

"I know the basics, of course. Everyone talked about it. What do you want to know?"

Harry left his letter half-folded, so only the first few lines and the last few on the back were visible, pointed to the shield crest at the top of the page. "This represents the four houses?"

Mrs. Figg nodded.

"What are they?"

"Badger for Hufflepuff," she said, pointing to it. "That's the house I always wanted to be in. Friendship, loyalty, hard workers. Hufflepuff's colour is yellow. Ravenclaw, for intelligence and learning, colour blue. Griffindor, for bravery and strength, colour red. Some call it the heroes' house, though Gryffindor heroes have a lower life expectancy than most if you ask me. And Slytherin, cunning and ambition, colour green. Never much in favour, the poor dears."

Harry nodded, stared at the crest. Bravery was one thing he would never be accused of showing. He was a hard enough worker, but proper friendship was an almost alien concept to him. As much as he wanted a friend, the thought of being surrounded by a whole housefull of friendly loyal types made him feel small and inadequate. He was clever and creative, wanted to learn, so all else being equal he would probably have desired to join Ravenclaw.

But though he did not think of himself as particularly ambitious, he would not deny his legacy. He was one of only two people in wizarding Britain with Slytherin's greatest gift. He would not turn his back on his great-ancestor's memory.

Well, that was assuming he had any choice in the matter. For all he knew, you were assigned based on where there were openings, or drawn by lot.

"How is your house decided?" he asked, worried now.

"Oh, there's a Sorting ceremony. Very mysterious, and I never went myself so I couldn't tell you. But everyone talks about where they want to end up, and they usually go to the house they chose. Some houses seem to run by family lines. Your parents were both in Gryffindor, you know."

Harry's certainty fluttered and died. "Gryffindor?" he asked faintly. Then he remembered what Quirrell had told him, about them both standing in defiance against Lord Voldemort. They had been brave, they had been heroes.

And they _had_ died young.

He resolved that he would not be placed in Gryffindor if he had anything to do with it. He'd even prefer Hufflepuff, at least there people wouldn't expect him to get himself killed in foolish defiance.

Why hadn't they run? Why hadn't they let Lord Voldemort go on doing whatever terrible conquest he wanted to do, why did _they_ have to stand in his way? If they hadn't placed their _bravery_ before their _family_ , then he would never have been sent to the Dursleys. Dudley would be _his_ cousin, only over on holidays if then, and Harry would be a wizard born and raised, able to turn his piggish relative into a toad or something if he ever tried to chase him or hit him.

Harry blinked and the image vanished. He didn't _want_ to imagine a perfect life where his parents were alive and everything was _right_. It only served to make reality that much more unbearable.

He had other questions, but he couldn't bring himself to ask them right now. The reminder of his parents had muted his curiosity, brought back his weariness from days upon days of straining for magic instead of sleeping.

"I think I'd like to go home now," he said quietly. "Thank you for your hospitality. I'll come over another time if you don't mind, I do have more to ask."

"You are always welcome," Mrs. Figg said, clearing away the tea things. "No need to ring ahead, just press the bell and come right on in."

"Thank you," Harry said.

The street outside was darker than he'd remembered, or perhaps it was that Mrs. Figg's house felt brighter than it had in the past. He made his way to the basement window, slipped into the Dursley's dark house. He painstakingly shoved the toolboxes back to their original locations, crawled across the carpet fluffing it back up to hide any slide pattern, and relocked the door at the top of the stairs.

That only left his cupboard, with a good six inches of bar just missing from both slide bolts. He climbed back inside, tried to will it back into place, but his heart wasn't in it. At last, resigned to his punishment being extended or intensified yet again, he pulled the cupboard door closed and lay down to sleep.

A snake under him squirmed, he pulled it out and set it aside where it curled up contentedly.

"You live such simple, trouble-free lives," Harry whispered.

The snake hissed softly, but whether it was a reply or just a sleepy sound Harry didn't know. His mind full of distant hope, his stomach tight with dread. Despite how tired he was he found it very hard to finally fall asleep.

—======—

Though Harry had intended to wake up early the next morning, so he could pretend he had accidentally magicked his way out of the cupboard in desperate need for the bathroom - a much more innocuous wrongdoing than the reality - he was so tired that he didn't even stir when Vernon roared his name the first time, and barely recalled the second or third.

"What are you playing at now?" his uncle demanded, throwing the cupboard door open. "What did you do?"

Harry blinked at him, tiredness helping his expression look uncertain. "What did I. . .?"

"You've done something to my cupboard, you've broken out somehow, haven't you?" Vernon's face was right up close to Harry's, his uncle's glower filling his view.

"I don't know what I did," Harry said weakly.

"None of that nonsense will be tolerated in my house, you understand me, boy! We swore when we took you in that you would be a _normal_ child, no making glass disappear, no climbing about on roofs and replanting hedges, and no _bloody melting through metal bars!_ " He reached in and pulled Harry to his feet.

Harry was genuinely afraid now. His uncle rarely hit him, leaving that to Dudley's discretion for the most part, but the few occasions he had were still burned into Harry's memory.

And right now Uncle Vernon's face was as bright red with fury as Harry had ever seen it. He wanted to cringe backward into his cupboard, would gladly have barred himself in just to be away, but Vernon's grip on his collar kept him standing.

"You know how much we've done for you, despite the fact you show up on our doorstep without a word of warning scaring your aunt half to death. We've made a place for you in our home, fed you, clothed you, all without asking so much as a _word_ of gratitude. But here you are, disrespecting our rules, disrespecting our _family!_ "

Harry honestly had no idea how to react to this rant. Vernon's voice kept getting louder, his face getting tighter and tighter. When at last he paused for breath, Harry found he couldn't speak. He wanted to look away, look anywhere but his uncle's furious glare, but they were nose to nose. He waited, frozen with confusion and terror.

"And if you had any thoughts of us letting you out before school starts up again, you'd better lose them now. You will do your chores, assist Dudley with his practice, and _return to your cupboard_ any time you are not making yourself _useful_ , do you understand me?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, uncle Vernon," he whispered.

"Speak up!"

Harry whimpered, cleared his throat. "Yes, Uncle Vernon, I understand."

"None of your lip now. Better hurry if you're to finish breakfast on time." He released Harry, brushed off his shirt as though sullied by their near vicinity, and stalked away muttering to himself. "Lying abed so late, lazy ungrateful. . ."

Harry swallowed his nervousness, set about making breakfast. He was relieved that his punishment wouldn't be worse, but hated the restriction more than he'd thought possible. He'd been restricted to his cupboard for long periods before, but they usually only meant that he would grow weaker from the inactivity, fidgety and restless. Now that he had a contact point with the greater world, the _wizard_ world through Mrs. Figg, he couldn't bear the thought that he would lose it so soon after finding it.

Professor Quirrell would be expecting a reply. Mrs. Figg would be expecting him to return. He couldn't slip out at night again, it was too hard and too unreliable. He needed to slip away from Dudley somehow during the day. If he could steal just a half hour a week, long enough to collect any new letter and send one of his own, that would be enough to sustain him.

But Dudley would be watching for any trickery, and the longer Harry was restricted to relative inaction the more out of practice he would be at running, the slower he'd be to slip away.

He had to act fast, or else come up with an excuse to spend more time outdoors.

What possible reason could he give. . .?

He turned the problem over and over all morning as he cooked and cleared up, all afternoon as he sat in his cupboard or fled from Dudley and his friends. He needed a valid excuse to be away from the house, needed a way that the Dursleys would accept. What could he possibly do to convince them to let him out during the day, despite his frequent misdeeds of late?

It took him two days before he finally thought of the perfect scheme, but he smiled and laughed even as he slipped on a wet patch of grass and Dudley's skinny friend caught and pinned him, sure his plan could work.

He had to appeal at the right time, in the right way. He had to get Mrs. Figg's agreement, his professor's assistance, but all the pieces were in place. All he needed was to present the plan to his uncle.

He waited three days before the opportunity presented itself. He knew Uncle Vernon's moods, and had to catch him at the right moment. Gruffly pleased by something, either a happening in the newspaper or his day at work. This particular morning, it was the news.

"And they'll be replacing that lout at long last," he exulted. "About time. I've been saying it for years, he's been a problem since the day he was appointed."

"Oh, surely," Petunia agreed, nodding absently. She was flipping through a fashion catelogue and Harry thought she wasn't actually listening to her husband.

Harry wiped his hands on his stained apron, passed his uncle another plate of bacon. Waited. Vernon nodded briskly at him, but didn't begin speaking again. Harry cleared his throat, wiped his hands again.

"Uncle Vernon," he squeaked out in a small voice. "I was thinking, and. . . I know I've never properly appreciated your generosity. I remember Mrs. Figg mentioning she wanted to hire someone to clean for her once or twice a week. If you'd let me, I'd like to work toward paying for my place here. Out of gratitude to you all."

His presentation had faltered, he knew. His voice uneven, points that he had laboriously planned out suddenly felt weak. He lowered his eyes and waited, tense.

"What do you think, Petunia?" Vernon asked. He still sounded happy enough, so Harry dared to imagine he hadn't botched things too badly.

"I think it's about time the boy start paying his way," Petunia snapped, looking Harry up and down. "Eleven years old and he only now thinks to start repaying what we've given him?"

Harry exhaled, careful not to let his relief show too visibly. As long as she was treating it this way, there was a good chance they wouldn't suspect him of any duplicity.

"Yes, you're quite right," Vernon said. "Good. You'll make all the arrangements, of course?"

Petunia nodded curtly.

The hardest part was done. Now Harry only needed to get word to Mrs. Figg of his plan somehow, before his aunt approached her and learned that there was no actual job opening, get word to his professor that he needed to borrow some money, and give every appearance of behaving himself the rest of the summer.

Dudley screamed for more eggs, which Harry jumped to bring him. Dudley smacked him with his Smeltings stick for being slow, but Harry didn't mind. He was already calculating, imagining potential future events, trying to find one that allowed him to get to Mrs. Figg first.

Petunia would generally start gossiping with the neighbors shortly after breakfast, then would do any walking to important visits between lunch and dinner. Dudley would have his friends over, as usual, and they generally wanted Harry for their 'exercise' time for at least an hour or two in the morning. Sometimes right up to when Harry had to start preparing lunch.

That would be his only chance. He had to slip away for long enough to give her the brief rundown on his plan. Ten minutes would be enough, and running away from Dudley's gang would be enough excuse for being out of breath when he returned. He could do it. He had to.

Uncle Vernon left for work, Aunt Petunia left to ask Mrs. Next-door - ever so subtly of course - about her daughter's recent and unfortunate associations. It was the talk of the neighborhood now, and Petunia didn't want to miss out on the chance of getting some exclusive word on the matter. Harry finished the dishes and returned dutifully to his cupboard, waiting for Dudley to call on him.

The morning passed. A snake slithered into the cupboard, draped lazily over Harry's leg. It had to have been _hours_. Harry grew more and more anxious. He pushed the cupboard door open a crack, peered out. The house was quiet and empty, the sounds of everyday life drifting through the kitchen window which was thrown open to the breeze.

Dudley and his gang must have gone out for the morning, because there was no sign of them or sound. Harry closed his eyes, picturing the world outside by the sounds. His aunt's voice still drifted from the yard, she would be leaning over the hedge. A neighbor's dog barked a few times, a distant sound of a lawnmower made itself heard. No Dudley.

Harry waited a long moment, pushed the cupboard door open halfway, leaned out. The hall was empty. He could go out the back door, slip through the hedge, run down the street to Mrs. Figg's house. He would be back before anyone noticed him missing.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open, stepped out of his cupboard. The moment his foot touched the hall floor his heart started to race. He could not think of anything more the Dursleys could do to him short of unbearable. They had exercised some restraint thus far, he'd never actually been in danger of starvation or forced to sleep out of doors or anything truly dangerous.

They could make his life miserable, but they did have some lines - seemingly arbitrary ones, but still. Harry was terrified that one day he would overstep the rules a little too far and those lines of restraint would vanish. He knew he was on shaky ground, he had no idea why they kept him, but he was truly glad not to have been sent to an orphanage. However horrible his relatives may be, at least he had a stable home.

He almost turned back then and there. Aunt Petunia would talk to Mrs. Figg, discover there was no actual job offer. Harry would be discovered as a liar, they would wonder what ulterior motive he had for wanting to visit his babysitter. They would forbid him from visiting her, hire someone horrible to watch him. But it would be a small enough problem. The months until the summer would be unbearable anyway. Did he want to risk making them that much worse just for a few letters?

Harry turned shakily, forced his feet to carry him toward the back door. Yes, he decided firmly. It was worth the risk. If he could create a lifeline to Professor Quirrell and Mrs. Figg, he could survive the summer with strength and dignity. He would be able to serve the Dursleys however they demanded, because he would know that he wasn't alone any longer. He had someone to talk to, someone to keep the hope of Hogwarts school always alive in his mind, unfolding new facets of its promise.

He had his hand on the doorknob when he heard the front door click and swing open. He jumped, skittered back to the corner and grabbed his apron, forcing his movements to look slow and casual as he placed it over his head with trembling hands. Aunt Petunia entered the kitchen as he tied it behind him.

"I didn't tell you you could start lunch yet," she snapped.

Harry ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia. I didn't want to interrupt your conversation."

She sniffed. "Well, get on with it then." She crossed to the livingroom and flopped herself down on the sofa, reaching for her stack of magazines.

Harry suppressed a groan. His indecision had cost him the opportunity. Though this may have been a good thing, at least he had changed course before leaving. If he'd been caught coming back _in_ , that would be far harder to excuse away.

But even if he hadn't been caught sneaking out, he'd have no chance now to get to Mrs. Figg first. His heart sank still further. Preparing and serving lunch, clearing up after, washing the dishes. By the time he was finished, Aunt Petunia would already be off on her way.

He was doomed.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Thank you for the feedback! I'm going to try posting smaller chapters more frequently for a while to see how it works out. The tentative schedule for next month is 2nd, 14th, and 25th, give or take a couple days. I should be able to keep this up a couple months at least, so far I think it's actually less of a strain to do more shorter updates._

 _Things will probably slow down around November-December; I have an overall plan for the storyline, but there are several subplots I haven't fully decided how to integrate yet. While the Privet Drive chapters will be fairly self-enclosed, once the story reaches Hogwarts I may need to pause a while to figure out things in more detail._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	6. The Memory Veil

_The Memory Veil_

* * *

Harry completed the lunch dishes and waited in his closet, simultaneously feeling numb and trembling with nerves. He'd spent so much time lately afraid, it was just getting to be too much. He wondered what the Dursleys would do to him now but didn't find any space for actual speculation, just a formless dread that seemed all too familiar of late.

He sat quietly, legs crossed, watching a nest of tiny brown snakes squiggling about in the corner. They held his attention for what felt like hours of his silent vigil. Dudley still seemed uninterested in him for punching or chasing. Normally he'd have considered that a good day, but now he couldn't bring a single positive thought to mind.

He would never be able to reply to the professor's letter. He would remain largely ignorant, walk into Hogwarts without knowing more than the most basic overview of its function. Without knowing who he could trust with his secret and who would shun him and call him evil for being born an Heir to Slytherin.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the cupboard door being thrown open, spilling early afternoon brightness into his face. He squinted, unable at first to make out what was happening. Dudley?

A hand thrust a sheet of paper into his face. Aunt Petunia's, he recognized her fingernail polish.

He took the paper, confused. "What's this?"

"The days and times you're to work for Arabella. I've already made arrangements for your pay to be collected properly, so you won't be able to muck _that_ up. It's a trial period, if you do a good enough job she would consider letting you stay on longer." She leaned forward. "I expect you to make a good showing of yourself, boy. You will _not_ disgrace this family by getting yourself fired from your first job."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, his spirits reviving in a rush.

"Your first day is today, starting in a half hour. You are expected to return here on time to prepare dinner, so work quickly. No dawdling."

"I promise, I'll do our family proud," Harry said, trying to suppress the eagerness in his voice. He didn't want to make her suspicious.

"See that you do," Petunia said sharply, then spun to leave. Harry listened to her click-click-click of footsteps, then allowed his face to split into a wide grin.

"It worked out, somehow!" he told the mother snake. She nodded agreeably, returned to watching her writhing nest of young. Harry didn't try to converse further. He had too much to do. A half hour wasn't long. He reached beneath his mattress to his most treasured possession, Professor Quirrell's letter, and set about composing a reply in his head so he could write it down straight away when he reached Mrs. Figg's house.

The time flew, and before he knew it his aunt was yelling that he would be late if he didn't move his lazy behind, so he jumped up and ran down the street. He rang the bell as instructed, but waited for her to open the door. He didn't feel comfortable just walking in, no matter that she'd told him he could.

"Ah, Harry," she said in a cross tone. "Come in."

Harry worried for a minute that he'd offended her, or that his aunt had pressured her. Instead, she waited until the door was safely closed, then her stern gaze melted into a welcoming smile.

"I have to say, I wasn't expecting your aunt to come calling. I nearly sent her packing before I understood your ploy. You needed an excuse to be allowed to visit me?"

Harry nodded.

"I thought as much. That was quite a gamble you took, trusting me to catch on."

Harry shrugged, not wanting to admit that he hadn't even _considered_ the possibility that she would play along without him getting notice to her in advance.

"I should warn you though, there's a reason I don't already have hired help. I can't afford to keep you on for long. I set you twice a week for two weeks, but—"

"I've got that part thought through," Harry interrupted. "I'm apparently rich, in the wizard world. I'll just have Professor Quirrell lend me enough to cover whatever bribes you need to pay my relatives, and pay him back once I come of age. He offered to do anything he could to help, I'm sure lending me a few pounds a week over the rest of the summer is within his means."

Mrs. Figg smiled, patted Harry's shoulder. "You're a clever boy, you know that?"

Harry smiled back, faintly. "I hope I'm clever enough," he said. "I want to join Slytherin or Ravenclaw, and either would require intelligence."

Mrs. Figg looked thoughtful. "Not Gryffindor?" she asked. "You don't want to follow your parents' footsteps?"

"My parents died," Harry said flatly. "I don't see what good being _brave_ did them. I'd rather live."

Mrs. Figg nodded slowly. "If that's truly what you believe, then I expect you'll get your wish. I've heard the Sorting rarely places anyone where they are utterly unsuited."

The word 'rarely' was not completely reassuring. The past two months had already made Harry convinced that he'd used up his quota of good fortune for a lifetime. Being a parseltongue Heir to Slytherin, the savior hero of the wizarding world from the age of _one_ , rich and famous and special, was already more than he could dare to hope for. Beside that vast new reality, any worry about being _locked in his room_ seemed suddenly unbelievably petty.

 _Wizards are better,_ Harry reminded himself. _The Dursleys are only muggles._

Besides, even if he ended up in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, he would still be somewhere with his own kind, wizards and witches, free to learn control over his true power.

"I would like to write a letter, if you'd allow it," Harry said. "I'll still clean for you, gladly, but I really want to make sure the first thing I do is let Professor Quirrell in on my plan. If anything is going to go wrong, I'd rather know right away."

Mrs. Figg nodded, motioned to a slightly dusty rolltop desk. "There should be writing things in there. I still have the owl he sent for me."

Harry sat down at the desk, rolled it open. There were pens, paper, and envelopes in individual cubbies, and a small drawer with a keyhole. He placed a sheet of paper before him and began writing.

 _Professor Quirrell,_

 _Thank you for your letter. It means a lot more to me than I can say. I was restricted to my cupboard anytime the Dursleys didn't need me for the rest of the summer because I broke the lock with magic, but I tricked them into letting Mrs. Figg hire me to clean._

 _If you really meant what you said, I would ask that you please send her enough money to pay them for my visits here so they think I'm just working and trying to contribute to their expenses for my living. I give you my word I'll pay you back once I come of age and can access my fortune._

 _I wish we could talk again in person, but I understand you're busy. If it is safe to answer, who is the Watcher? I feel like I should know the name of our adversary. If I want to get into Slytherin house, is there anything I should be studying or preparing for? How am I to get my school things, and where is Hogwarts? Why does it have such a weird sounding name?_

Harry paused, running close to the bottom of the page. His handwriting was neat enough, but nowhere near as tight as Quirrell's. He waited a moment so as not to smudge the ink, then turned the paper over. He turned Quirrell's letter over as well, though he had it nearly memorized now.

 _I would very much enjoy learning from you individually, if I have time on top of other classes and homework. I don't know what the school is like at all._

Harry stared at the page, suddenly unable to bring any questions to mind. All the secondary ones would depend upon the answers to the main ones. He smiled to himself. This letter was only the start. Once they got everything arranged, he'd be over here _twice a week_. He could ask anything he thought of, any time.

 _Your visit brought me a great hope that I never dared to have, showed me a new world waiting for me just a few months away. I can never thank you enough for that. I look forward to seeing you this September._

 _Your friend,_

 _Harry Potter_

Harry folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope. He wrote 'Professor Quirinus Quirrell' in the center, then realized he didn't know Hogwarts' address. His own letter had no return address, having been sent inside Mrs. Figg's letter from Quirrell about him.

He shrugged. She would know where to send it. He stood, brought her the letter with his thanks, then asked what she wanted cleaned.

"Oh, just start on the front hall, that's all most people see. And don't stay too long, you must be sure you're back to your aunt's for dinner, don't forget."

Harry smiled. The way she said 'for dinner' as though it were a thing he were attending instead of preparing and serving made him realize just how well the Dursleys hid his true status within their home. As much as Mrs. Figg saw of him being chased by Dudley around the yard or hanging out the laundry, she had no idea what life was like inside. His unhappiness was obvious, but the reasons and depth of it were not.

He cleaned the hall with quiet efficiency, being quite adept at cleaning after living with the Dursleys for so long. Mrs. Figg brought him tea halfway through, and told him stories about her cats' more entertaining exploits, a few of which were almost actually entertaining.

A few snakes wandered in, and Mrs. Figg shooed them out with a confused expression. "They don't usually do that," she said.

"Don't they?" Harry asked. "I've never seen a snake stopped by a closed door, they go where they wish."

She gave him a curious look, and then after tea she went over to the writing desk herself while Harry finished dusting the hallway. He replaced the burnt out bulbs in the wall sconces, and the overall effect was to transform the entry from a dim and dreary place to one that looked actually welcoming despite the photographs of cats covering nearly every inch of the wallpaper.

He waved farewell, walked to the door with a spring in his step, and only then remembered that he was supposed to have been engaging in hopeless drudgery. In reality, Mrs. Figg's house was the type of cleaning he liked the best. It was just dirty enough that you could see the progress as you cleaned, but not actually filthy or needing deep scrubbing.

And his letter would be away by the next morning. Depending on how far away Hogwarts was, it could be a few days or a week before he could expect a reply. He decided he wouldn't allow himself to be disappointed until it had been a week and a half, on account of the slowness of the post. Uncle Vernon always complained about it.

He got straight to work on dinner, determined to put the matter aside until it brought itself back to attention. In the meantime, he had two days a week to talk with Mrs. Figg about any of his smaller questions, and his time spent cleaning for her passed peacefully with the welcome chatter of someone talking about something she cared about rather than his aunt's constant berating.

He would probably never understand her fondness for cats, stories about Tibbles and Mr. Paws would never find a place in his heart, but the way she got animated when she was really into the story made him smile. Whatever the obsession with cats, her passion for the subject shone through every word.

* * *

To his surprise, the very next time he visited her there was already a letter waiting for him from Professor Quirrell. He raised his eyebrows. "That was quick," he said.

"Oh, it's been here two days now, dear. Owl post is much quicker than the muggle sort."

Harry turned the letter over, began breaking the seal. "Owl post?" he asked.

"It's how wizards send mail to one another. Magical owls, trained and tied into the post network. They can get your letters anywhere within a day or two and Hogwarts isn't so far."

Harry thought back to any mention of owls he'd heard from Quirrell or her, and the explanation made everything fit perfectly.

He brought out the page.

 _Harry,_

 _I have made arrangements for your relatives to be paid as requested. You needn't pay me back, a few sickles is well within my means. I would say you are well on your way to becoming a proper little Slytherin already, arranging matters so deftly with so few resources speaks well to your potential for cunning. I wouldn't worry about preparing for the Sorting, you will be given a chance to voice your opinions on the matter and your choice is taken into consideration. From what I've seen of you, there is no need to fear being placed elsewhere._

 _Arrangements will be made through the school for your attendance and any necessary purchases. I am not involved in that department, but I know they have policies in place for muggle-raised students and will surely not neglect to contact you, probably quite soon. If you don't hear anything by the last week of July, tell me at once and I'll make inquiries on your behalf._

 _Hogwarts School is an ancient institution, out in the Scottish highlands. It was founded so many centuries ago that its true origins are lost to myth. I can only assume the name had some meaning to its founders, or was popular at the time, or held some allusions to ancient magical practices. I'm sorry, History of Magic was never my best subject. I could make inquiries of the history professor if you wish._

 _There is a train from King's Cross in London, the Hogwarts Express, which is likely how you'll get here. It's a beautiful castle, a beautiful location, beautiful grounds. We're in the mountains by a loch, ah, Harry._

 _You can believe me when I say that Hogwarts will become your truest home, the safest and most welcoming place the wizarding world has to offer. It's not perfect, you'll probably have fights with other students, enemies, rivalries, but that is normal wherever you go. People are still people, and much as I wish it were otherwise even wizards are not perfect._

 _But here you will never be alone. I will be here for you, your house will come alongside you regardless of where you are sorted. Never again will you be without allies. I promise you, sliizashisa to sliizashisa._

 _As to your other question, adversity has many faces. I cannot in this letter tell you every enemy you may face or who may watch you with ulterior motive, but I will send word by our friends to give what warning I can._

 _I look forward to seeing you again. If you can get word to me on when you'll be in town, I can meet you in Diagon Alley when you go shopping. I'll try to find out from McGonagall as well, but as I'm the youngest and newest professor here they may not trust me with so much information about a student. Defence Against the Dark Arts is hardly a post that requires personal visits with new students, after all._

 _Your friend,_

 _Professor Quirinus Quirrell_

Harry read the letter again, reread it again, and then reverently folded it and slipped it back into its envelope. It would join the other in the space under his mattress, slid under that loose floor panel where no one but him would look for it.

He thought about it while he cleaned the back section of Mrs. Figg's hallway, then sat down to write out his reply. It was a brief letter. He asked what the other teachers were like, what sort of classes were taught at Hogwarts, and how many students usually attended, but mostly just an expression of his undying gratitude.

The end of July was not far away, a few weeks. Then there would be another line for Harry to the wizard world, through the official representative of the school and not just the one professor who took it on himself to seek out his fellow Heir.

Harry smiled to himself. If it weren't for the fact that snakes were such impossible rumormongers, he and Quirrell might never have found each other. He tried to imagine a summer without the hope of Hogwarts, without the knowledge of who he truly was and could become.

For once in his life, without resorting to absurdities, he could actually imagine things being worse.

* * *

Several days passed. Harry returned to Mrs. Figg's house and picked up Quirrell's reply, a full three pages listing the names and positions of the Hogwarts staff, as well as brief personal summaries about them. The deputy headmistress, also head of Gryffindor house, was strict but fair. The potions master, Snape, was prejudiced toward his own house of Slytherin and hated Gryffindors. The head of Hufflepuff was a genius with plants. The charms professor was the head of Ravenclaw, a bit distractable but a former duelist and very very skilled at magic of most sorts. The History of Magic professor was a ghost.

Harry was surprised to find ghosts to be real, asked for more details on what exactly they were and how they should be treated. Did they have their own culture, any customs he should be aware of?

The classes had such interesting names, he couldn't wait to start actually learning things. He couldn't wait to get a _wand_. He asked for more detail on some of the more exciting-sounding courses.

He finished his letter, cleaned Mrs. Figg's bathroom, and returned home trying to hide his high spirits.

The very next morning he was fetching the mail for Uncle Vernon when he saw beneath the bills and correspondence a heavy envelope of familiar texture. Pulling it free of the stack, he glanced at it. Mr. H. Potter, cupboard-under-the-stairs, etc in the same brilliant green ink. He couldn't hide his grin, his heart leapt exultantly. He slid the envelope into his cupboard to read later and hurried the rest of the mail to his uncle.

Breakfast seemed to take forever, the dishes seemed greasier than usual, his aunt pickier than usual, and he hadn't even taken off his apron before Dudley demanded his presence outside to help him and his friends with their 'training'.

Harry endured it all with ill grace, snapped at Dudley, made snide remarks about his friends, and ran as fast as he could when they chased him. When they finally gave up and Dudley ordered him angrily back to his cupboard, Harry was eager to comply.

He closed the door, slowly unsealed his precious letter.

Top and center on the cover page was the familiar crest, much larger and more prominent than on the normal letterhead that Quirrell used. Below was the school name, the headmaster's name and accolades. He read them all, wondering about the significance of each, then moved on to the actual letter.

 _Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you are invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, beginning this year on September 1. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, and instructions for accessing the Hogwarts Express. As you are registered as muggle-raised, a school owl has been sent for your convenience. We await your reply no later than July 31._

 _Arrangements for a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase your books and equipment can be made upon request if you do not have access to an adult with a wand._

 _Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress._

Harry leaned back on his bed, sighed happily, and held his Hogwarts letter up to read again. Then he read over the enclosed documents, thought of several questions to ask Quirrell in his next letter, then re-read the cover letter. This would _definitely_ go in his collection.

The letter had no return address, but that didn't mean anything considering the wizards' Owl Post. He didn't have paper or pen to write a reply immediately, that would have to wait until he could visit Mrs. Figg again. He hoped the school owl could wait that long.

His contemplation was interrupted by a small black snake who slithered under the cupboard door, over onto Harry's mattress. _"Nagini wishes to speak with you, master,"_ it hissed softly. _"She is waiting in the hedge."_ It nodded its head back toward the side of the house.

 _"Thank you,"_ Harry hissed back. He considered, then decided he didn't care right now if he was caught out in the yard. Nothing they could do to him today would dim his mood. _"I'll go see her now."_

He waited for the snake to nod and slither away, then slipped out of his cupboard and around back. He crawled under the hedge, not a good hiding spot when being actively sought for, but enough to keep him hidden from a casual glance over. He looked around.

 _"Nagini?"_ he hissed.

 _"Here, small-master,"_ she said, slithering down from the higher branches. She was even bigger than he'd remembered, long enough to circle him at least three or four times with length to spare. _"I am here to speak with you for Quirrell."_

The sound she made was the same other snakes used for 'master' when speaking to Harry, but it somehow brought an exact mental image of the professor to Harry's mind and so he mentally translated it as 'Quirrell'.

 _"What does he want to tell me?"_ Harry asked.

 _"He understands that you wish to know about the Watcher, but the knowledge of your adversary is dangerous. I am here to assure you that there is little immediate threat to you. He worried that his vagueness may have led you to assume the worst."_

 _"I suppose I can find that out on my own,"_ Harry said. _"If the Watcher is the one in charge of my affairs, he'll be on record somewhere. I'm sure I can ask the school representative."_

Nagini hissed softly, in a way Harry took to be displeasure. _"It is dangerous for you to know your adversary," she repeated firmly. "Once you know who the Watcher is, you must never allow yourself to be alone with him. He would know ways of seeing into you, knowing your heart, and that could be disastrous for both yourself and Quirrell. I beg you on his behalf, do not follow this line of investigation. So long as you do not know him in connection to us and Quirrell's concern, you will be safe. Hogwarts is safe. You need not be worried."_

 _"Then I'm sure I'll be informed by legal council or something,"_ Harry said glumly.

Nagini hissed quietly, a hesitant sound. _"There is something I might be able to do,"_ she said quietly. _"It will not be permanent or painful, but will blur your memories of this knowledge enough that the Watcher could not find the link to us. This inner veil will be always between you and us in your memory, you can pass it when needed, but you must never do so while in the Watcher's presence. You will not betray us by thinking about its existence, only by actually passing through it to remember clearly."_

 _"Really?"_ Harry asked, leaning forward. _"Snakes can do magic?"_

Nagini hissed in amusement. _"No. I am more than just a snake, I am Quirrell's familiar, his confidant and closest friend. He has given me part of his own power, a trust greater than any shown to us in memory. I can do magic, but only in certain instances and a very few spells. He gave this to me particularly, fearing that you may have learned too much."_

Harry wasn't sure he liked the idea of interfering with his memory, but it sounded harmless enough. _"What do I need to do?"_ he asked.

 _"I need your permission to enter your mind,"_ Nagini said, slithering closer. _"You must look straight into my eyes, and if you feel anything strange within yourself do not fight it. Spells of this nature are easily disrupted, so they cannot be used on the unwilling. I cannot hold the same magical strength as a wizard, so we will only have one try at this before I must rest."_

 _"Alright,"_ Harry said. _"How long will it take?"_

Nagini swayed in uncertainty. _"Minutes."_

Harry nodded. _"Go ahead."_

 _"Look into my eyes,"_ Nagini hissed. She stretched up, her head even with Harry's face.

He felt a creeping fog in his mind, like a memory that wouldn't quite surface, accompanied by a sharp pain in his forehead. Harry wanted to shake his head, try to clear his thoughts, but he forced his focus to stay steady. Nagini's eyes, beautiful and deep, so much bigger than those of the normal garden snakes.

Memories of his conversation with Quirrell, his conversations with snakes over the past weeks, even of writing his letter, all flashed suddenly vivid in his mind. As though they were being projected clearly on the surface of his thoughts, all at once, all overtop of each other, each distinct and separate.

Then the fog surged forward toward the shining memories, and Harry instinctively tried to hold onto them. Together they were the whole representation of the happiest and best thing that had ever happened to him, and fear suddenly overcame him that he would lose them forever.

Nagini gave a quiet hiss of warning. Harry tried to let it happen, tried not to fight whatever magic she was doing, but the moments it took for the fog to envelope them completely passed with agonizing slowness. It felt like watching his one ray of hope slowly strangled by empty darkness, when he could have easily reached out to prevent it.

 _"You nearly pushed me out,"_ she said quietly, the fog vanishing along with any discomfort. _"I think it worked. Can you feel it?"_

He thought back to his meeting with Quirrell in the park. He remembered it as clearly as ever, but now there was a thin wispy mental veil across it, one that he knew instinctively he could drop back in place at a moment's notice.

 _"You covered more than just any mention of the Watcher,"_ Harry said quietly. _"You covered every time I talked with a snake, every time I had anything to do with Quirrell or my heritage as a Slytherin."_

 _"Yes,"_ Nagini agreed. _"I placed a template for the veil which will cover any related memories in future. The farther out from this moment the memories are created, the farther they will shift, and the less securely the veil will obscure them. By anchoring the veil specifically with us and with Quirrell in your mind, there is a much better chance that every mention of the Watcher will be held for many years. No one else would use that term, meaning the same thing."_

Harry nodded slowly. The explanation made sense, but he couldn't help feeling that he'd been tricked into something. He had no idea _what_ , and for all he knew Nagini was being completely honest with him. And since he could still access the veiled memories at any time, he supposed it didn't matter. He put it out of his thoughts.

 _"Thank you,"_ he said. _"And tell Quirrell I said that, too."_

 _"It will be conveyed,"_ Nagini said, bowing her head. _"Thank you for your willingness to protect him. I would be broken if anything happened to him."_

He bade her farewell, hurried back to his cupboard, and for once managed it without being caught.


	7. A Letter For Hogwarts

_A Letter for Hogwarts_

* * *

For the days between his letter arriving and his next day cleaning with Mrs. Figg, Harry kept his head down and just followed the Dursleys' orders. Though it still made him crazy enough to want to scream, he just kept repeating to himself that it wouldn't be for long.

One month plus one week, then he'd be away for the school year. It may as well be an eternity distant.

He grew used to the veil partitioning his memory, practiced thinking about things related to what was hidden there without drawing it open. If he found out about the Watcher, if the wizard was able to see into his soul as Nagini had implied, he didn't want to risk being unprepared. He practiced while cooking, practiced while running from Dudley, practiced while lying in bed waiting for sleep. It helped take his mind off the limitations of his existence at present.

The morning of his chance to write his reply, Harry woke to the sound of Aunt Petunia banging on his cupboard, unlatching the slide bolts and shrilly ordering him to hurry up with breakfast. He cooked the meal, collected the mail and brought it to his uncle, cleared up after the meal, and allowed Dudley to almost catch him as they ran around the yard. Finally Dudley's friends cornered him, and he was unable to escape their practice for hitting people, but then they let him go to get dressed for work.

He changed from his dirty stained too-large outfit to his cleaner stained too-large outfit. The school owl sat on the fence by Number Four waiting, as it had for the days since its initial delivery of Harry's letter despite Aunt Petunia's attempts to scare it away.

Harry supposed it must hunt during the night, because he had not seen it move beyond tilting its head around and hopping in place or picking at its foot or feathers.

He would have a reply for it to take back soon. He silently begged it to wait just a few hours longer as he hurried past it toward Mrs. Figg's.

He had considered long and hard how to explain his state of affairs to the school. They clearly had little idea of what his life was like, if they thought he would be able to just go out to the train station. Without his aunt or uncle driving him there, or someone from the school picking him up, he'd never manage.

Professor Quirrell was magically prevented from entering Privet Drive, but Harry hoped that, if worst came to worst, he could convince him to meet somewhere like the park, and from there they could go to the train station together. At that point, he would be safe from his relatives' retaliation whatever they thought of him running off with a strange man.

He went straight to the writing desk.

 _Professor McGonagall,_

 _My aunt and uncle will not be interested in allowing me to attend any sort of school except the local muggle high school. I hope you don't require their consent as I would very much prefer to go to Hogwarts. But I will need help getting my school things, and probably a ride to the train station for start of term too._

 _Please tell me if there's anything else I need to do to be ready._

 _Thank you,_

 _Harry Potter_

There. That should do it. Harry had considered putting in an apology for causing them trouble, or offering to pay for their time, but thought that might seem too desperate. If he was as rich and famous as Quirrell had indicated, they would probably be happy to accommodate him. And if not, he was sure the professor would be able to help him.

He had decided to be brief and professional about the whole affair, there was no point blathering on about his whole life story. He wanted to attend, needed help arranging things, that was all there was to say.

He folded the letter, slid it into an envelope, and wrote 'Professor McGonagall, Hogwarts School' on the front, tucked it into his pocket. The only advantage to wearing Dudley's oversized castoff clothing was the excess of pocket space.

Only once that was taken care of did he open Quirrell's reply. He gave a satisfactory overview of the classes Harry had inquired after, then explained that ghosts were wizards whose spirit refused to die along with their bodies. But without a physical mutable form, they would be stuck as the same version of themselves as they had been at the moment of their death, unable to really learn or change beyond their immediate context. It was a state to be avoided if possible, as being without a body left you also incapable of magic.

Quirrell didn't see how they could have a culture, though he noted that it was considered impolite to bring up that they were dead. Sometimes they didn't realize they had died, other times they just chose to ignore it, and neither type wanted the truth shoved in their incorporeal faces.

Harry was feeling anxious now, wondering if he should have said more in his letter to McGonagall, so his reply to Quirrell was long and full of his concerns about the future.

Would Hogwarts be willing to go to so much trouble just to get one student to attend? Was Harry really that important? Would they need his aunt and uncle to consent? Would he ever be able to get a wand if he wasn't allowed to attend the school? What would happen to him if he didn't get taught? Would his power keep getting stronger?

He signed his name at the bottom, stared at the rambling for a moment, considered throwing it out, then folded it determinedly and stuffed it in an envelope.

He gave that to Mrs. Figg to send, then set about cleaning her dining room. This was the least used room in the house, he realized at once, and would require more than one afternoon's cleaning.

By the time he left, he was satisfactorily covered in dust and cobwebs, which would make his aunt pleased if nothing else. He walked home, one hand on the letter in his pocket, the other fiddling nervously with the loose thread that hung off his frayed sleeve.

He arrived at Privet Drive, surprised to find no sign of Dudley or his friends. They must have gone out while he was at Mrs. Figg's. He looked around again, checking for his aunt, but the yard was empty and silent. He brought out the letter, held it up to the school owl. It peered at him, then hopped off the fence and onto his other arm, held out a foot.

"Gotcha!"

Harry screamed. The owl flapped into the air as Harry whirled.

Dudley snatched the letter and grinned triumphantly. "I knew you were up to something," he sneered. "No one's ever that happy to go _cleaning_."

"Give that back!" Harry demanded, trying to snatch the letter. But his cousin held it away, up out of Harry's reach.

"You were only going to feed it to the owl," Dudley said. "You want it, you'll have to fight me for it."

He held up his other fist in front of his chest, ready.

Harry's momentary courage wilted. But he couldn't let Dudley read the letter, and he _really_ couldn't let him give it to Aunt Petunia. He had no chance of winning a fight. He had to get it back some other way.

He stared at his shoes, slumped in a convincing imitation of defeat.

Dudley laughed. "Now, what would someone like _you_ be writing about?"

Harry glanced up at the school owl, which had resumed its seat on the fence and was watching with a disgruntled expression, its eyes followed the letter as though it wanted to grab it.

Dudley moved to open the letter and Harry seized the opportunity. His cousin was distracted, not ready, and Harry grabbed the letter away. Dudley lunged for it, but Harry had desperation on his side. He twisted the envelope away with a ripping sound that seemed to echo in his ears.

"Take it to Hogwarts!" Harry shouted to the owl, threw the letter as hard as he could into the air just before Dudley tackled him bodily.

He feared for a moment that nothing would happen, that it would fall to the ground and Dudley would grab it instead, but the owl knew its job well. It swooped on the crumpled envelope, winging away with it before Dudley could hope to stop it.

The larger boy was left with less than two inches of paper, but he sat on Harry to prevent him getting up and unfolded it anyway.

"Professor. . . My aunt. . . in allowin. . . except th. . . you don't. . . prefer to g. . . getting my. . . the train s. . . Please tell me. . . do to be ready. . . thank you, Harry Potter."

Dudley waved the paper in Harry's face. "Professor? Be ready? The train? _Thank you_?" His voice rose to a shout. "Who have you been writing to? What's Hogwarts?"

Harry heard his aunt give a little shriek from inside the house, and a moment later her head popped out of the open bedroom window. "WHAT DID YOU SAY?" she yelled.

Dudley waved the paper in the air proudly. "Harry was trying to give an owl a letter, but I got part of it away."

Aunt Petunia fainted, toppling backwards out of view.

Harry's heart sank. He was sure there was enough in the remaining part of the letter for McGonagall to understand his position, but there was obviously enough in this piece to incriminate him. Why had he said 'Hogwarts' out loud? It was obvious that Aunt Petuina had recognized that word particularly. Why hadn't he just said 'McGonagall' or 'the professor' or even just 'here's my reply'?

It was too late now. The secret was out, and he could see no way to slither out of trouble this time.

* * *

Dudley locked Harry in his cupboard personally, at Petunia's command the moment she recovered. Harry heard her pacing the house, knew she'd be fluttering her hands with a look of panic on her face. He'd seen it before when she was expecting important guests, it meant she would be snappish and quick to yell.

But he was already locked in - actually locked, which normally was only done overnight - and could envision no way out of this. Uncle Vernon would be furious, he always was when Harry caused his wife trouble, and Harry had never seen her so worked up.

For something like this, even his worst fears seemed too lenient. He tried to stop thinking of what could happen, but his imagination seemed stuck on searching for the worst possible outcomes.

But why would Aunt Petunia recognize the word 'Hogwarts' specifically, he asked himself. Tried to distract his mind, challenged himself to puzzle it out.

She seemed to understand the implications of the owl as well. He remembered thinking once that his relatives knew the truth and hated him for it, thought back to how every mention of magic, every fairy tale or fantasy movie, had been banned from mention within the Dursley household.

Harry recalled when Dudley had wanted to go see the rented video of E.T. with his friends, Petunia had ignored his tantrums and flatly refused, instead promised him a whole pie of his own if he dropped the subject and never brought it up again. After all, the poster had a _flying bicycle_ on it, and bicycles did _not_ fly.

Throughout Harry's whole life, anything even close to dealing with magic had been shunted aside from the Dursleys lives. Deliberately so, he now realized. They knew enough about the wizard world to _hate_ it. He had heard from Quirrell about Lord Voldemort's war of conquest, it had ended when Harry was a baby. Perhaps they knew something about that? Thought all wizards were like that?

Harry shook his head. That didn't fit. The way Aunt Petunia looked, it was hatred and fear but not that sort. The personal sort. The look that came from being wronged on a level that Harry knew the depth of full well.

She was the sister to Harry's mother. Had she been the one from whom Harry inherited his magical abilities? Had Petunia felt outshone, perhaps, by her witch sister? Jealousy could be a powerful motivator.

Or it could be Harry's father. A wizard, sweeping Petunia's sister off her feet with his foreign power, perhaps literally charming her away from her family? That would explain the hatred as well.

Harry sighed and leaned back on his lumpy mattress. He didn't have enough information to solve this, the past was too far away, too long ago and too well hidden.

He wondered what Uncle Vernon would do to him when he got home from work. He worried if the crumpled partial letter _would_ be enough. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd written, hadn't seen what part Dudley had torn off.

From the words he'd read off, though, it was plenty incriminating for the Dursleys to justify any restrictions against him. His days of blythely running off to Mrs. Figg's house for his secret correspondences would be over. He hoped he hadn't caused her any trouble. Even if she was a bit loony it was nice having an adult around who wasn't determined to make his life miserable.

And his last letter to Quirrell had been nothing but complaining. Why had he talked about himself so much? He should have been more diligent in making the professor understand Harry's gratitude, that he valued their friendship more than anything he'd ever had.

Now it was too late. He was locked in, and didn't see that he would ever be allowed outside the house again. He'd tricked them, betrayed the tiny trust they'd placed in him, and now they knew he was involved with wizards. For a family that so despised magic, what greater crime could there be?

He knew he'd go mad. Alone in his cupboard, but at least he had snakes to talk to.

He sat bolt upright, his forehead connected firmly with the stair above him. He winced at the pain, shoved it aside along with the the veil on his memory to access his secret ability.

"You all talk to each other, relay messages, right?" he hissed to the current occupants of his cupboard, a pair of greyish-brown snakes with similar patterning who seemed to be having a silent disdainful argument of some kind. They looked up at him, twisted into mirrored upright coils to see him better.

"Yess, we are able to relay messages. Master-not-master is the only wizard to whom we could convey them."

"Tell him I've been caught, that I won't be able to send any more letters. Ask him what I should do."

"It will be conveyed," the snakes replied, nodding their heads in near unison.

"Thanks." He lay back down, rubbing at his head.

He hated his cupboard, his prison, but at least it was the one place that was _his_. The Dursleys never rearranged his possessions, never more than glanced inside to get him up or call him to work.

Harry pulled his stack of letters from under the mattress. Four from Quirrell, and the Hogwarts official one from McGonagall. He reread them each, slowly, line by line. Committing their already memorized words to heart, even the list of equipment. He lingered on that, knowing it to be the last page, tried to imagine every possible use for each listed item.

He was especially intrigued by the line proclaiming ' _First Years are not allowed their own broomsticks._ ' Quirrell's list of school subjects had included _flying_ , and he'd asked after it. He rotated the final letter from Quirrell to the top of the stack, read it again. Alone of his wizard correspondence, this one he hadn't fully memorized, having only received it a few hours previously.

He was rereading the professor's overview of classes and ghosts for the fifth time when he heard the front door open.

Dudley called from the living room that, "Mum's upstairs with a headache, she was really furious today about something Harry did."

Harry stuffed the letters back under his mattress as fast as he could, lay down on his side and pretended to be asleep as Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps approached his cupboard door. He changed his mind, sat up with his legs crossed in front of him, tried to look repentant, knew that whatever he did his uncle would find fault with it.

The bolts unlatched, the door was flung open. Harry squinted against the light, used to the dimness.

"What did you do to upset my wife?" he thundered. "How dare you!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry said, looking away. The truth that _he_ was the one being wronged, that this was all so unfair and _absurd_ wanted to burst out of him, but now of all times he had to keep his tongue in check. _Angry words are not careful words_ , he reminded himself.

"Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry that you upset her, or sorry about _what you did?_ "

Harry couldn't answer, his throat was already thick with tears. He was afraid, and he was angry, and he was afraid of what he could do because he was angry, and he didn't _care_ , but he was so tired of _this_.

His uncle's face was puffed up and crimson, and he didn't even know the whole story yet. Harry had never seen him so angry.

"He tried to give a letter to an owl," Dudley said helpfully. Harry wanted to slap his smirking mouth so badly.

Vernon's face turned a shade deeper, almost purple. "YOU WHAT?" he roared. "AN OWL? A LETTER? HAVE YOU GONE MAD?"

"Vernon, he's been _talking_ to _them_." Petunia's voice was faint, as though she was terrified or else on the verge of tears. She held out the strip of Harry's letter in a trembling hand. "I think he was planning to run away."

Vernon's fists were clenched, his face no longer enough to contain his fury. "How did you do it?" he asked, jabbing a finger toward Harry's face. "How did you manage this. . . this. . ." He shook the torn letter under Harry's nose.

Harry really was crying now, unable to stop himself. He couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to.

"It was that old crazy Mrs. Figg," Dudley said, proud to contribute to the conversation. "Harry seemed awful happy to go clean for her, so I got suspicious. I waited for him to come back, and that's when I caught him with that letter."

"Where's the rest of it?" Vernon asked, his voice going flat and dark.

"The owl took it," Dudley said.

"To. . . _that place_ ," Petunia added faintly.

Vernon turned his glare on Harry, his voice leaving no room for compromise. "You will not be going _anywhere_ with _anyone_ , you understand me boy? We agreed to take you in, with one purpose. You will grow up to be _normal_. You hear me?"

Harry had taken enough. Two months ago, he would have nodded meekly and accepted his punishment. But now, he knew he had options. He knew that this didn't have to be his future. He knew that he could dare more.

"I am going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harry yelled, sitting up on his knees so his head brushed the top of the cupboard, staring Uncle Vernon right in the eyes. Angry. Defiant. "I am a wizard, and nothing any muggles say about it will change that fact."

He felt so calm, suddenly, as though his angry outburst had spent all his aggression. He could almost see magic, could feel the true power within him. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"Lumos," Harry whispered.

And a dazzling light blazed out from a spot just in front of his chest. Vernon winced and backed away a step. Dudley gasped and flinched. Petunia swooned.

"I am a wizard," Harry repeated, his voice confident as the flare of light began to fade. "I am leaving now. Don't try to follow me."

He grabbed his stack of letters, jumped out of the cupboard, and sprinted for the door.

Vernon recovered from his shock, jumped at Harry with a roar. Harry's heart was racing as he just managed to dodge his uncle's attempt to grab him. He nearly tripped over his too-long pant leg, stumbled, recovered. Vernon lunged again, but Harry had years of experience running and dodging from Dudley's training.

He threw the door open and raced down the drive. He couldn't believe what he'd done, but he was committed now. Harry turned the corner and sprinted for Mrs. Figg's house, the only place he could think where he might be safe.

He shoved the front door open, ran through, slammed it closed behind him. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, and he felt worn out somehow in a way he never had before. His forehead throbbed, both the dull ache from where he bumped it and the sharp pain through his scar that came and went seemingly without reason. It was stronger today, much stronger.

"Who's there?" Mrs. Figg demanded in a slightly wavering voice from her bedroom.

"It's me, Harry," he replied, panting for breath. He reached up to lock the door, and only then noticed it was already bolted for the night. Except the bolt was just gone, like the bars from his door. "I may have ruined your lock. I'm sorry about that."

"Oh, dear boy, what's the matter?"

She was wearing a nightgown covered in cartoon cats as she emerged into the hall, which somehow made her look _less_ mad than usual.

Harry couldn't think what to say, so he just stood and waited as she came over. She gently wrapped her arms around him, and he was suddenly sobbing. All the fear, all the stress, all the worry and hope and truth and lies, it was just too much for him to hold in any longer.

She didn't seem to know what to say either.

Harry didn't care.

She silently held him, and he cried wordlessly.

He didn't need words. He just someone to be there for him.


	8. The Representative

_The Representative_

* * *

Harry wrote another letter the next morning, explaining in greater detail what had transpired. He wrote one to McGonagall, one to Quirrell, another to Quirrell, and then a second to McGonagall with fewer details and a bit more succinct. He crumpled the first, then glanced between his two letters to Quirrell. Though there was some duplicate information, he decided to include both. He wrote a third explaining a few more things, asking a few more questions that came to mind, and begging for a way to leave early.

It was three days short of his birthday, which fell on the last day of July. Then he had to make it through August. While staying on Mrs. Figg's sofa was a fine solution for one night, he doubted his aunt and uncle would stay intimidated. Vernon would have regained his courage and his fury by now, and Harry couldn't imagine his reception would be polite. They would know he came here, and they would not just allow matters to stand.

They had legal custody of him, after all. If Mrs. Figg refused to send him back, they could have her arrested for kidnapping or something. Uncle Vernon had always put great store by the effectiveness of the government.

Harry laid his head on his arm, stared sideways at the letters strewn across the desk. It was barely past sunrise, no one else was awake in the neighborhood but perhaps the milk man or paper boy.

He was so tired of worrying, but he couldn't make himself stop. His mind just kept replaying, over and over, every possible scenario, each worse than the last. He couldn't think of a single way out. Quirrell couldn't come for him. He couldn't get _to_ anyone. Mrs. Figg was his only protection, and a meager one she would prove in the face of the law.

Harry groaned, flopped his other arm over his face. He was so tired of it all.

He sat up at last, added a postscript to his third letter to Quirrell, then folded them all and shoved them into an envelope. He reread his letter to McGonagall, decided it wasn't good enough and rewrote it again.

By the time Mrs. Figg walked by toward the kitchen, Harry had six discarded drafts and no idea what he would say. He smoothed out the first version, which upon rereading seemed less lacking than it had previously. He copied it out to a new page with a few minor alterations, stuffed it in an envelope, then hurried to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry breakfast isn't ready, I didn't know what you wanted."

Mrs. Figg gave a quiet squeak, then relaxed when she saw Harry. "Oh. I forgot you were here, my goodness." She put a hand to her chest. "I haven't had visitors overnight in so long. I'm sorry."

"If you don't have enough food for me, that's fine," Harry said, though his stomach grumbled in protest.

"Nonsense," she said briskly, and set about assembling a batter. Harry had always used mixes, the Dursleys didn't want there to me any chance of him slipping up, so it was fascinating watching her deftly measure out all the ingredients without pause, moving with the confident rhythm of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

He was spellbound. She didn't even seem to measure half the time, grabbing a handful of sugar, shaking her hand as though weighing it by instinct, tossing in salt by pinching it between her fingers.

She hummed quietly, her voice creaky and occasionally off-key, but Harry thought it was beautiful. She seemed not to notice his presence so he just sat at the table and watched, glad of the distraction from his thoughts.

Shufflepaws wandered in, Mrs. Figg's newest, a large grey cat with gold eyes. The cat glared at Harry disdainfully before jumping up on his lap and kneading his paws against Harry's legs. It tickled terribly, and Harry squirmed and giggled.

Mrs. Figg turned, still mixing the batter with one hand, the bowl held securely in the other.

"You're in his seat," she said, but chuckled to make it clear she wasn't ordering him to move. "Seems he likes you well enough though, don't you Shuffly?"

The cat didn't deign to acknowledge her, continuing his detailed inspection of Harry.

Harry sighed with relief as the cat finally settled down, as though Harry's lap were the most natural place in the world for a nap. He found he rather enjoyed the feeling of Shufflepaws, warm and soft and heavy. He would like a cat someday.

A snake slithered in through the hallway door, hissing softly to itself. It eyed Shufflepaws with its head raised, tasting the air with its flickering tongue.

"Be nice," Harry hissed to it, instinctively sliding through the veil in his mind. "This is a friend."

"What was _that_?" Mrs. Figg asked, watching him with a look of complete surprise.

Harry turned to her, startled. "I, uh, it's a wizard thing. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"I've never heard a wizard do _that_ ," Mrs. Figg replied, then shrugged. "I suppose you'd know better than me," she said, a poorly-concealed hint of bitterness in her tone.

Harry realized he'd been insensitive, but couldn't think of a way to apologize without seeming condescending and the last thing he wanted was to alienate his one ally.

"It's a very rare ability," he said instead. "I'm not surprised you haven't met another."

Mrs. Figg nodded. She heated up a frying pan and began pouring the batter out in neat even ovals. Harry was surprised by how thick and fluffy the pancakes were when she finished. She had the batch done within a few minutes, piled them on a plate and offered it to Harry.

It felt like an eternity since he was last allowed to eat breakfast. He had never tasted anything so delicious in his life, he believed, cat-hair, slight metallic taste, and all. He ate all of them by the time she was finishing the second batch, and she offered him all but one of those as well. He accepted gratefully.

She nibbled the last pancake with one hand while with the other she rinsed the bowl and frying pan out, started frying the ham. Thick slices, a bit on the old side, but more filling than anything Harry had been allowed in years.

Aside from the sheer novelty of eating something he hadn't prepared, he couldn't recall the last time he'd actually been completely satisfied with his portion.

Harry thanked her profusely, and then a few more times for good measure.

"Please, don't mention it," she said. "If there had been a way to have you over for breakfast all these years, I would have done so."

"I'll probably never be allowed back once they recapture me," Harry said glumly. "They won't trust you now."

Mrs. Figg shrugged. "I couldn't stand by another year without at least trying," she said. "I hope it wasn't the wrong decision."

"I think right now is when I need you the most," he said after a moment. Just over a month, and he'd be off to Hogwarts. He'd have friends, allies, his wealth and power and status to aid him. He could make arrangements well in advance, never spend a minute longer than needed in his relatives' cupboard. It was now, the fragile nexus between past and future, between fear and hope, when he really needed an ally.

Mrs. Figg smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. I only hope in a few years you'll be able to still believe that."

Someone ponded on the door. Harry's spirits dipped, threatened to plummet again. He knew it was Uncle Vernon, come to reclaim him.

"Don't let him take me back," he whispered, knowing full well it was a futile request. "I don't want to go back there."

Mrs. Figg patted his head. "I'll do whatever I can, but I'm afraid it won't be much."

Harry nodded, shrank lower in his chair. Shufflepaws lifted his head, glared at Harry reproachfully, jumped down and walked away with his tail in the air. Harry wanted to hide under the table, crawl under the sofa, find someplace to hide and just refuse to leave.

He heard Mrs. Figg's voice, Vernon's angry tones, Petunia's sharp interjections. He couldn't make out the words, his aunt and uncle were both talking fiercely, but quietly, probably wary of being overheard.

It sounded like the argument was getting louder, sharper. Finally, the voices stopped, and Harry heard the door click firmly shut. He watched the hallway warily, but heard only Mrs. Figg's footsteps coming.

She sighed, then sat down opposite him. "I told them you weren't here, that I didn't know who you were writing to. They didn't seem convinced, but they left for now. Petunia wanted me to promise not to allow you to write here any longer, or you'd not be allowed to work for me in future. I lost my temper then, said more than I meant to." She let out another sigh. "They'll be back, I'm sure. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Harry whispered. "I'll find somewhere else to stay, I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Tell me before you go anywhere," Mrs. Figg said sternly. "I won't have you disappearing on me, I'd be worrying for weeks."

Harry nodded agreement. It still felt so strange, every time he realized that someone actually cared about what happened to him.

"I have letters to send," he told her.

She nodded, accepted the envelopes. She unlocked the guest bedroom door, which turned out to be a chilly and mostly empty room with an open window. An owl sat on a perch by the corner, hooted softly when it saw them enter.

"For Hogwarts again," Mrs. Figg told the owl, holding out the two envelopes. The owl took them, one in its beak, one in its foot, then flapped into the air and out the window. The curtain drifted in the breeze of its passage, slowly fell back to rest.

"There. We'll be hearing back from them in a few hours, I expect. In the meantime, what shall we do with ourselves?"

Harry shrugged. He had no idea what normal people did during the day, any more than he knew what wizards did during the day. He only knew what he and Dudley did.

"I shall teach you to play dominoes," Mrs. Figg said to Harry's indifference. "That will pass the time quite nicely, I believe."

It was a calm game, a quiet game which allowed for casual conversation and strategy and Harry enjoyed immensely. They played a dozen games, the table growing more and more covered in the little porcelain tiles with each progressive round. She had double-twelves, so they had plenty of tiles to work with, but he found himself growing increasingly restless as the day wore on. He was used to action, to moving, and had more energy than he knew what to do with. Mrs. Figg clearly had no idea what to do with him either, but he didn't want to insult her hospitality.

A hoot from the back room interrupted them, and Harry was surprised to find it nearly lunchtime. Mrs. Figg hurried off to the owl room, stepping around the dozen snakes that had taken up residence on her floor, and returned with a pair of letters.

"Both for you, dear." She set about assembling sandwiches while Harry opened the first.

Mr. Potter,

While your circumstances are cause for concern, we cannot allow you to leave your aunt and uncle's residence until the proper start of term. As they are your guardians, you must remain in their home during the summer holidays.

However, we understand that they must be made to see the truth of your situation. Your parents already made it clear that they intended you to be a proper wizard, and your name has been down since you were born. So long as you choose to come, you can not be prevented from attending Hogwarts at this point by anything your muggle guardians attempt.

We believed that a letter had been given to them explaining everything, but it seems they may not have received it after all. A school representative is on his way. He will explain matters to them in person, and make arrangements for your trip to Diagon Alley for your school things.

Thank you,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Harry opened the second, a much shorter reply than he'd ever seen.

Will meet you in Diagon Alley. Don't let on we've met. See you soon.

Your friend, Quirinus Quirrell.

Harry grinned, eager to see the professor again. First, though, he had to get through the interview with the Dursleys.

"Harry, come and meet your Hogwarts representative," Mrs. Figg called. Harry had feared the pounding at the door meant Uncle Vernon's return, but it seemed not to be the case.

The man standing outside was huge. Vaster than any of the Dursleys' relatives, taller and wider than Harry had guessed it possible for anyone to be. He had a wild beard and hair, wore a heavy coat with more pockets than Harry had ever seen in one place.

"Rubeus Hagrid," the man said, his voice deep and accented heavily. "Lovely ter meetcha again, Harry. Yeh've grown up nice since I last saw yeh."

"I don't remember meeting you before," Harry said, sure he would have. Mr. Hagrid was very distinctive.

"'course you wouldn't, you was only a babe at the time. I brought you here, to Dumbledore, after yer parents'. . . well, after that night."

"Dumbledore?" Harry asked. "The Hogwarts headmaster? What does he have to do with it?"

"He's in charge of yer affairs, innit?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat as he felt the information fade behind the veil in his mind. Albus Dumbledore was the Watcher? The _headmaster_ of the school he was about to attend was. . . ?

He couldn't think about that yet. He filed it away, resolved to ask Quirrell just what Dumbledore had done to be labeled as their _adversary_. But not now. He let the veil fall over the knowledge.

"My aunt and uncle hated me," Harry said.

Mr. Hagrid looked sad and angry all at once. "Hated _you_? Jealous, maybe, but that's no cause—"

"No," Harry interrupted. "They actually hate me. I don't know why. But I don't think they realize how famous I am to wizards, and I'm sure they wouldn't care."

"We'll see about that," Mr. Hagrid said. He beckoned to Harry. "Come on, let's go tell them how it'll go."

Harry followed the huge man down the street, smiling at the thought of what the Dursleys would think when their neighbors saw this wild giant of a man coming to _their_ front door.

It was almost enough to overcome his dread, but he couldn't help thinking that something would go wrong.

Hagrid banged on the Dursleys' front door, the sound carrying across the neighborhood. "Open up, Dursley!" Mr. Hagrid shouted. "I need a word with yeh."

Petunia opened the door so quickly Harry knew she must have run. She stared up at the giant at her door with big, scared eyes, then caught sight of Harry standing beside him. Her expression tightened.

"We don't want any of _your_ sort around here," she said. "If you've come to bring the boy back, well, _he_ ran away from _us_. I have been true to my word."

"Yeh, and a fat lot of good it did 'im. You be good to th' boy, you hear? And no more talk of 'im not attendin' 'ogwarts. He'll be comin' and that's the end of it."

"We swore when we took him in that we'd put an end to that. . . freakishness. My _sister_ got herself _killed_ because of that nonsense, and we'll not have that happen again."

Harry was surprised by this. He wouldn't have guessed the Dursleys cared whether he lived or died. "Funny way of showing affection," he muttered, too quiet for her to hear.

"Yeh swore a more important oath when yeh took him under yer roof," Mr. Hagrid said firmly. "To care for him and protect him."

"And we have done that," Petunia snapped. "We have fed him, clothed him, given him space though he's as ungrateful as ever a boy could be, and he just up and runs off on us like this."

"Because yeh wouldn't listen, obviously." The huge man's voice had risen, and Petunia took a furtive look around. She looked half as though she wanted to bring Mr. Hagrid inside just so no one would see him standing on her front step, and partly as though she couldn't bear the thought of him setting foot indoors.

"What more can you demand of us? We have done everything for the boy!"

"HAH!" Harry couldn't hold it in. "You've done nothing but the barest minimum to get by. If you could get away with it, you'd do even less."

"You hear?" Petunia snapped. "Ungrateful to the last."

"Well he's stayin' through August, and be back nex' summer too, an' ungrateful or not yeh'll take good care of him. Unnerstand? And 'e will have his own owl, so we'll expect to be hearin' from him regular like."

"Vernon would never allow—" Petunia began, but Hagrid cut her off.

"You will allow him to write, and tha's the end of it."

Petunia wilted under his glare, unable to hold her ground against the sheer volume Mr. Hagrid represented.

"Now, I'm takin' 'im for his books an' things, we'll be back in a few hours. Remember, Dursley."

Petunia watched him warily as they turned to leave, then shut the door firmly.

"Now?" Harry asked, excited. "We're going to buy my wand and magic things now?"

Mr. Hagrid grinned. "Yeh, I've got other business in town too, so yeh'll fit right in. Our new defence professor offered teh show you around while I take care of affairs at the bank, so you can get to know at least one of our faculty. He's much better than the last two, seems t' be, I'll be sorry to lose him."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, 's not anything real," Mr. Hagrid said, looking uncomfortable, "but it's been a long time since we had a defence professor stay longer'n a year. They just can't take it, I s'pose. Sometimes you think they will, but then there's an accident, or they turn out to be embezzling, or they've gotten too attached to certain students. . ."

The big man sighed. "I hope this year turns out alright. He was teachin' Muggle studies fer a bit now, he's a nice lad, hope nothin' terrible happens to 'im. He traveled abroad, see, came back this year all excited teh teach everyone what he learned. Bit touchy about vampires now, though, wonder what happened."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** I've obtained a beta! __For now, my chapters remain un-beta'd as we're starting at the beginning, but_ _I'll be updating the earlier chapters as I can, probably starting next month. :)_


	9. The Curious Ways of Magic

_The Curious Ways of Magic_

* * *

Harry had never been to London before, but even visiting the city seemed pale and ordinary compared to the knowledge that they were about to be shopping for his _magic_ things.

"We can really buy all this here?" Harry asked. They had passed nearly every sort of shop imaginable, but nowhere that looked remotely magical.

"If yeh know where to look," Mr. Hagrid said, pointing to a dingy looking pub. "The Leaky Cauldron, famous place it is. Come on."

Harry had the distinct feeling that no one on the street actually saw the pub at all, no one was going into it, no one was looking at it properly. He grinned. A hidden magic place right in the middle of London. He hoped its dreary exterior was just a cover, but the interior was dark and shabby enough to match its outside facade perfectly.

Before he could look around more closely, he noticed the atmosphere of the room change. He felt as though everyone just stopped their conversations to stare at him. He held his arms closer to his sides, suddenly very aware of his rolled up pants and oversized shirtsleeves, watched the huge man's back and tried not to attract attention.

"The usual, Hagrid?" asked the barkeeper.

"Not today, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business."

Behind the close conversation, a background hum had started back up. More hushed, more reverent. Harry heard his name at least a dozen times over.

"—right age for it," "Never did hear where the old man hid—" "What is he wearing? I must have it for myself—"

Harry felt his face heating. He would probably die laughing if oversized muggle clothing became fashionable in wizard circles because of him.

The barman peered at him more closely. "Can it be. . .?"

"I'm—" Harry started, but his voice squeaked. He cleared his throat nervously, reached up his hand. "Harry Potter, pleased to meet you."

The barman's grin widened. "Thank you, Mr. Potter." He shook Harry's hand firmly. "Thank you."

"It _is_ him!" a woman in the crowd exclaimed. "Harry Potter, welcome back!"

And then everyone in the room were on their feet, surging forward. Shaking Harry's hand, introducing themselves. Some had tears in their eyes as they thanked him, some stared at him with such pride that he felt even more uncomfortable.

"You're welcome," he murmured back, "Nice to meet you too. Thank you. You're welcome."

Then a familiar face jolted him out of the moment. He reached automatically to shake the hand, then froze.

"This is Professor Quirrell, Harry, I was tellin' you about him. He'll help yeh at the bank and shoppin', I've a few other things to take care of. Diagon Alley is safe, no one'll bother yeh here."

"Nice to meet you, Professor," Harry said, giving a polite nod. He managed not to grin, but it was a close thing.

"Likewise, Mr. Potter. I hope you've had a good summer."

Harry smiled, secretively. "Better than most, thank you Professor."

"Yeh, well, time to be on, come on you two." Mr. Hagrid started off, his massive form clearing a swath through the crowd for Harry and Professor Quirrell to follow in his wake. He reached a walled off area out the back door, tapped a particular pattern of bricks with a bright pink umbrella, and the wall folded itself away, forming an elegant brick archway instead.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Mr. Hagrid said, and here Harry finally had his first proper look into the wizard world.

The shops were partly just like normal shops, but everything seemed to shine as though freshly polished. No everyday grime was allowed to build up, making the street look almost unrealistic. And then there were the items for sale: cauldrons, broomsticks, parchment and quills, an entire storefront dedicated to toads.

Harry heard a pair of witches on the street debating over a storefront display whether the higher point or a folded point hat would go better with her dress robes, and he thought how strange it was that it felt completely natural to think of everyone in sight as witches and wizards.

They arrived at the bank, a great marble structure with bronze doors and a swarthy-faced. . . not-human person, about a head shorter than Harry himself.

"Goblins," Professor Quirrell told him quietly. "No safer place in the world to store valuables."

"'cept maybe Hogwarts," Mr. Hagrid put in.

The red-uniformed goblin bowed as the trio entered. They passed through silver doors with a long poem engraved upon them, but Harry was already looking past them to the row of goblin tellers positioned inside the vast marble room.

About a hundred goblins worked this main area, at his guess, dozens sat at the counter on high stools to talk to customers, others sat at desks behind, measuring and weighing, examining gemstones.

It was a flurry of activity, measured and precise in each of its parts, but overwhelming to take in all at once.

Mr. Hagrid pulled out a small key from his coat pocket and handed it to Harry. "Don't lose that," he said. "I'll need it back once yeh finish. It's very important."

Harry nodded.

Professor Quirrell led him up to the counter. "Mr. Harry Potter would like to access his vault," he said.

The goblin peered down at Harry. "Key?"

Harry handed it up. He saw Mr. Hagrid at another teller, leaning close and talking quietly, place a sealed envelope on the counter.

"Very good." The goblin's voice brought Harry's attention back to his own teller. The creature motioned behind him, and yet another goblin rushed forward. "Griphook will escort you to the vault."

Griphook led them through a side door, down a narrow stone passageway lit with torches and to a small railway track that twisted across their path deeper underground.

Griphook whistled, and a cart rushed forward along the tracks. He motioned them to follow him inside it, then tapped Harry's key against the front of the cart. It set off, down twisting and turning passages, steering itself onto one set of tracks or another, seeming completely sure of itself with no need of further direction.

They finally stopped, Harry grinning and breathless from the wild ride, Quirrell looking less pleased with it. "Didn't remember them going so fast," he mumbled, leaning against the wall.

Griphook unlocked the door, letting out a cloud of green smoke. As it cleared, Harry gasped in astonishment.

He knew intellectually that he was rich, but it was another matter entirely to be confronted with a huge pile of gold, silver, and bronze coins shining in perfect stacks.

"Is this. . .?" Harry asked.

"Yours. Every knut of it."

"Galleons," Quirrell said as he began counting gold coins into a bag Griphook provided. "Seventeen Sickles to a galleon," he pointed to the silver coins. "And twenty-nine Knuts to a sickle. It's a bit tricky to catch on at first, but you'll get it."

"Galleon, sickle, knut," Harry repeated, looking at each type of coin in turn. "Seventeen, twenty-nine." He knew he'd forget, but kept repeating the numbers anyway.

"There," Quirrell said, handing the bag to Griphook.

The goblin weighed it in one hand, listened to the sound it made, then wrote a small notation on his book. "Withdrawal verified," he said. He handed the bag back, closed the door and returned Harry's key, then led them back to the cart.

Harry thought he saw another little vehicle go whipping past them, heading the opposite direction as they headed back up the winding tracks at almost the same speed with which they'd hurtled down them.

He blinked as they emerged from the bank to the bright afternoon.

"I don't think I need to ask where you'd like to go first," Quirrell said, nodding toward a narrow storefront with peeling gold letters. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

Harry grinned. "You're right."

They entered the shabby little store, accompanied by the tinkle of a little bell somewhere farther in. The cramped interior was quiet and dusty, the exact opposite of most of Diagon Alley, full of shelves stacked with little boxes. Thousands of them. It reminded Harry a bit of a shoe store's back room.

His skin seemed to prickle with the power in the air. He could feel his magic now, sense it waiting, reaching for something. He gave a quiet, nervously excited laugh, but swallowed the sound quickly. He stared at the stack of boxes, following it up to the ceiling and back down, trying to count the tiny long boxes.

"Good afternoon."

Harry almost jumped, startled. He hadn't seen the old man come out from the back.

Mr. Ollivander peered at Harry with wide, pale eyes. "Harry Potter, yes. You have your mother's eyes."

"Thank you," Harry said, not sure what else to say.

"Quirinus, I remember you. Do you still use the wand I sold you? Something feels different about you this year."

"Nine inches, alder, unicorn-hair," Quirrell replied, drawing out the wand, giving it a quick twirl. Harry thought it looked smaller and more ordinary in the light of day, he must have exaggerated it in his memory.

"Hmmm, bendy, good for protection charms. Yes." Ollivander's pale silver eyes seemed to linger on Quirrell for a long moment, then he turned back to Harry. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed?"

Ollivander nodded, brought out a tape measure which set about measuring Harry's body on its own. "Hold out your arm. Good."

He flitted about the shelves, pulling boxes seemingly at random, stacking them on the desk. "Try this," he said, offering Harry the first. "Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches."

Harry took the wand, had time only to notice a faint shining feeling in his fingers before Ollivander snatched it back. The wandmaker offered him one after another, rattling off the name of its ingredients and its length, occasionally adding a note about what it would be best suited for.

Each felt about the same, the quiet tingle of latent magic, but nothing as dramatic as when he'd used Quirrell's wand. He thought he understood _what_ Ollivander was trying to do, but he couldn't see _how_ the wandmaker would be able to see so quickly whether or not Harry felt anything from the wands. He didn't give enough time.

They worked through the first stack, and Ollivander smiled and flitted about collecting a second. None of these produced any effect, and he set about gathering a third pile.

He seemed to be growing more and more eager as they went through dozens of wands, the stack of rejects on the desk growing higher and higher. Harry wondered how long it would take him to put them all back in their places.

Then Ollivander hesitated. He looked at Harry, then slowly reached up and pulled out a single box. "Why not give this one a try," he said quietly. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple."

Harry took the wand, expecting something dramatic to happen. The wood felt smooth and sparkling under his hand. Nothing happened for a long moment, but Harry did feel a distinct warmth from the wand. He got the impression it was waiting for something from him.

"Curious," Ollivander said. "I've never seen such a strong, yet subdued reaction. Give it a wave, will you?"

Harry brought the wand up in front of him like Quirrell had showed him, whispered "Lumos," though he hadn't planned to. The tip flared to life, momentarily brightening the dim shop, casting sharp shadows across Mr. Ollivander's face. Then the light flickered, faded.

"Hmm, most curious indeed." Ollivander took the wand, replaced it in the box, but didn't move the box to the pile of rejected wands. He tapped his long fingers on the box instead, watching Harry with an amused expression. "I dearly wish I had another wand with a matching core. I feel like the holly wood is the problem here, but no two phoenixes are the same and they are temperamental in the extreme. Alas, the only other feather from that phoenix is long since gone into the world."

Ollivander tapped his fingers again on the box. "We could keep searching, but I have a feeling on this, a very strong feeling that this is the wand you are destined for. Which is curious in its own right. But its subdued reaction to you is even stranger. The wand chooses the wizard, you see, but this wand seems to have reservations about you. Curious."

"Does that mean it won't work right for me? It will be hard to control?" Harry asked, worried. He didn't want a picky wand to get in his way.

"It is a supple wand, which should adapt well to you given time, if it decides you are the right fit. I would worry, though, sending you out with only two-thirds of a proper match. It could go either way, you see."

"Should we keep trying?"

"If you wish. I have a few more unique combinations we could try." He whisked away to the back, returned a minute later with another armload of wands. "Acacia and dragon heartstring, ten inches, bendy. Very tricky combination."

Harry felt the wand as sharp, not uncomfortable but obvious. There was a connection, but it was not strong. He brought the wand up in front of him, but felt no particular reaction.

"I thought not. I've had this one back there for over fifty years now, tricky combination. Needs a firm hand, but the right mind. Cyprus and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, rigid."

Harry shook his head, handed it back. He knew what he was looking for now, understood the way a normal wand would feel, knew the slight variations that marked their types. He was worried, now, his reaction to _Quirrell's_ wand had been stronger than his own, and none of these rare combinations seemed to be working out any better for him.

Ollivander returned to his front shelves, offered Harry an array of his more standard combinations, tried various woods with various other phoenix feathers, but his smile seemed wistful or contemplative now, not entirely genuine.

"I fear we shall not find a better match for you," Ollivander said, tapping on the single box. "Curious are the ways of magic. But I now believe you will come to an accord. Rarely have I seen so strong a connection."

Harry nodded. He hadn't realized so much effort went into choosing a wand. He paid the wandmaker and took the wand in his hand again, felt the waiting and warmth, the tingle through him of magic at rest. He nodded, his worry fading. Reluctant or no, the wand felt _right_.

"Thank you."

"I think we must expect great things from you," Ollivander said softly. "The brother to this wand you have already encountered and defeated once, and that wand was destined for great things. Terrible, yes, but none can deny the greatness. You and this wand, I suspect shall go farther than most of us could imagine."

"Lord Voldemort was the one who bought the other?" Harry asked, turning back to Ollivander.

"Yes. If I'd known then what that wand would go on to do, if I had guessed when creating it the terrible places it would lead our world. . . but it also crafted new magics unheard of in our time, the dark mark alone is an unparallelled piece of magic. Understanding even a fraction of the genius that led to our near-destruction would be a great gift to wizards for centuries to come."

Ollivander shook his head. "The future, the past, they can be altered but never changed. Rewritten, but never undone. It is not well to linger on what might have been. Learn from what is, what has been. That is all we can seek to do."

Harry nodded, not exactly following.

"Nice meeting you," Harry said, though the wandmaker seemed a little off. Harry wished he would blink more often.

"And you, Harry." Ollivander's voice was quiet. He bowed in farewell.

"Thank you." Harry said, and followed Professor Quirrell back outside.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as they emerged into the brightness and fresh air of Diagon Alley. The stuffy, magic-heavy atmosphere inside Ollivanders had been invigorating, but stifling at the same time.

He and Quirrell walked down the street, crowded with wizards and witches and children. A pair of boys were arguing over which one got to ride a toy broomstick, a girl stood with her face pressed against an apothecary shop window, a pair of black-robed wizards swept down the street like it belonged to them, engrossed in their own conversation. . .

They purchased the rest of Harry's school equipment, as well as a hefty trunk that was a bit larger than its outside would indicate. He was fitted for robes, stood quietly while the shopmistress measured and pinned, and then waited while she made a few modifications with a dozen needles that flashed as they flew about at her wand gestures.

Harry couldn't wait to get home and start reading his school books. _The Standard Book of Spells, grade one_ , seemed especially promising.

Mr. Hagrid met them outside the seamstress's shop, carrying a cage with a lovely white spotted owl. "It's a few days early, but I thought yeh'd like to have her now. Happy birthday, Harry."

Harry grinned. He'd never had such a nice birthday present, and he didn't care that it was a few days early. He felt like he'd never smiled so wide before in his life. "Thank you, Hagrid, she's wonderful."

He remembered to give back his bank vault key, though that brought to mind thoughts of Albus Dumbledore, headmaster, _Watcher_. He glanced at Quirrell, cursing himself for not having thought to ask for more information _the whole time they were alone shopping._

That veil in his memory was proving more trouble than he'd have anticipated. It didn't _prevent_ him from thinking about anything, but it did make it harder. Despite his attempts to practice using it back at Privet Drive, it seemed that only when he had a reason to allow it open did all his questions come flooding back to the forefront of his thoughts.

With Mr. Hagrid back in charge of Harry's trip, Professor Quirrell bowed his farewells and strode off down the street.

Still, Harry had an owl of his very own now, he could send letters any time he wanted. He just couldn't ask about anything sensitive.

How had he gone a whole afternoon ignoring something so mysterious?

He reached in his pocket, wrapped his hand around the warm wand handle. He knew how. The world of magic was just opening up to him. How could he worry about some nebulous feud between a professor and the headmaster, when there was _so much_ to see?

He put it out of his thoughts.

All too soon, the whirlwind of shopping and magic came to an end. As they were about to leave Diagon Alley, Mr. Hagrid stopped.

"Harry, I think I should tell yeh, underage wizards aren't allowed te do magic 'cept in school or when bein' supervised by an adult wizard or witch. The Ministry of Magic can track wand use, so make sure yeh don' get too carried away with yer studies. Got it?"

Harry nodded, disappointed. He'd looked forward to practicing spells, but if it was illegal he didn't want to get in trouble. He could wait a month. And he could still memorize everything in the standard book of spells.

Though, he remembered Quirrell's emphasis on pronunciation and rhythm when teaching him _lumos_. Maybe it would be best to not risk learning it wrong, wait until he had teachers to mimic the correct sound and flow of the words.

Mr. Hagrid left Harry with his tickets for the train, the Hogwarts Express, on September first. "Platform Nine and Three Quarters, remember," Hagrid said.

"The Hogwarts letter had instructions to reach it," Harry said.

Mr. Hagrid laughed. "Used to be they'd just trust people to work it out. These days everythin' has ter be spelled out so exact."

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't have been able to work it out. It's not exactly intuitive."

"To a wizard—"

"Raised by muggles," Harry pointed out.

Mr. Hagrid grunted. "Well."

He delivered Harry to Four Privet Drive, by which time Vernon had returned from work. They had a loud discussion, which ended with Hagrid glaring threateningly at Harry's uncle as though he would spear him through with the pink umbrella, and Vernon agreeing shakily and grudgingly that they would be sure Harry was able to write and that they would bring him to King's Cross station at the correct time.

Mr. Hagrid accepted their concessions, waved cheerily to Harry, and walked off down the street.

"It's time you cleared out Dudley's second bedroom, that place is a mess," Aunt Petunia snapped. "And put that horrid owl somewhere out of sight."

Harry shoved his trunk into his cupboard, moved his mattress on top of it, though it left him with barely enough room to lie down, he wouldn't be able to sit up without ducking his head. He set his owl's cage on top of the mattress, though he couldn't think where he could put her when he needed to sleep.

He smiled to her anyway, patted her feathery head before hurrying about his chores. It wasn't her fault he didn't have any space, and he would be sure to take care of her as best he possibly could.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _The initial rewrite for Part One is in progress; anything after the prologue is subject to change over the next few months. I'm not sure if I'll be handling Hedwig the same way, or at all. Something about it feels a little forced, like I'm trying to push too many elements from the original in without a good reason. The wand has to stay, for obvious reasons._

 _I'll probably post another chapter this month, but most of my attention is on revision at this point. I don't want to have a broken beginning that sets the whole story on the wrong track, and I believe with my wonderful beta's assistance we can prevent any such disasters. :) However, it does mean that after this month there will be a significant lull while I update the first ten chapters before continuing._

 _Thank you for reading!_


	10. The Secret Train

_The Secret Train_

* * *

Harry noticed a marked change in atmosphere around Privet Drive. While Petunia still ordered him about with a bit more coldness than usual even for her, Dudley and Vernon seemed inclined to ignore Harry's existence with a sort of invisible scorn that made him feel somehow more lonely than before. They didn't bother locking the cupboard any more, seemingly unconcerned with anything he might do.

The night before his eleventh birthday, Harry had to stay up late to finish scrubbing out Dudley's second bedroom. It had long been a storehouse for everything the bigger boy had broken but refused to throw out, and only at Petunia's sharp command had her son subsided in his moaning over his precious belongings. Petunia had insisted in the morning that Harry _must_ finish it before he went to his cupboard for the night, and he was well and truly exhausted.

Still, that meant he was awake as the livingroom clock quietly struck twelve, and he threw out the last pile of dirty rags with a satisfied sigh.

He went into the livingroom, flopped out full length on the sofa, and stared over at the clock.

"Happy birthday, Harry Potter, wizard."

He smiled to himself, then went to wedge himself into his cupboard alongside Hedwig's cage. (He'd found the name in one of the schoolbooks and thought instantly that it fit her.)

He stroked her feathers, the best birthday present he'd ever been given, and fell asleep within minutes.

He awakened in the morning to find, to his utmost surprise, that he'd been allowed to _sleep in_. Aunt Petunia was already cooking breakfast, while Dudley and Vernon watched Harry with matching looks of disgust.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, glancing between his relatives.

"It's your birthday," Aunt Petunia said, her tone making it clear she thought Harry was being stupid.

"I know _that_ ," Harry said, annoyed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you the morning off," she said in the same condescending tone. "As you'll need the time to move your things."

Harry's heart sank. "Move? Where am I going? Out in the yard?"

Petunia spun on him. "Do you really think so little of us? Your own family? You'll be moving upstairs. The room's all cleared out, I trust?"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Dudley's second bedroom?" he asked.

" _Your_ bedroom now. You're getting too big for that cupboard, now go and move your things."

Harry just stood and stared at her, dumbstruck. Was she. . . being _nice_ to him? It had to be some kind of trick.

He lugged his trunk up the stairs, set Hedwig's cage on the single night table and opened both the cage door and the window so she could come in and out freely. She'd been out for a few hours each day exercising or delivering letters, but this would be much more comfortable for her Harry was sure.

He dragged his mattress up the stairs too, though he noticed his snakes looking at him reproachfully. He supposed they wouldn't be terribly pleased with needing to go up the stairs to see him now.

"Sorry," he whispered to them.

The bedroom seemed vast. With his mattress by Hedwig's table, he still had enough floorspace to fit a dozen trunks, and the walls had enough shelves for all his possessions.

Uncle Vernon didn't give him a present, nor did Dudley, but Harry didn't care. He had his own room, and his own owl, and only one more month to go before he would be leaving this place for so many months it may as well be forever.

* * *

August passed quietly, slipping one day to the next without much to break the rhythm.

Dudley got over his disdain, returned to chasing Harry around the yard with his gang, but Harry didn't mind so much. He wouldn't have said it was enjoyable, but it was dependable and even if it was only his brutish cousin wanting to hit him it was the only social interaction he got in person with anyone close to his age. And it certainly passed the time faster than sitting staring at the wall. Kept him in shape, at any rate.

His afternoons with Mrs. Figg remained a highlight of his week. He cleaned for her, then they played games, and talked about cats. It wasn't the most engaging way to spend his time, her games were always slow and her stories always fairly uninteresting, but she had been a friend to him when he needed it most and was always happy to see him. And she was the only person he could talk to who didn't think 'wizard' meant he had the plague or something.

Quirrell continued to write each week, giving Harry a patchy summary of life as a wizard. Harry's questions always led to more questions which inevitably ended with them on some obscure topic, but he was starting to get a feel for how magical society went.

He read his schoolbooks and the supplementary texts he'd purchased, or at least skimmed through them. As much as _A Basic Introduction to Spellcrafting_ sounded interesting, it had grown quite dull after the initial novelty of a book about magic wore off. Far too much geometry and seemingly arbitrary magical words, none of which made any sense to him.

He desperately wanted to succeed, to have some understanding of spells before he reached school so he wasn't at the bottom of all his classes, but life at Number Four Privet Drive was not an atmosphere conducive to study of magic. The years and years of being told off for even thinking about anything behaving the way it shouldn't had left deeper imprints than he'd have guessed.

Harry often found himself drawn outside, into the beautiful summer weather, rather than struggling through another textbook. A lot of the books wouldn't be any use without a proper teacher anyway, he reasoned. He would jog around the yard, watching Hedwig's flight, or crawl through the hedges, talking to the outdoor snakes who didn't deign to enter the house.

So the summer passed, less unbearable than he'd ever imagined possible. And if his progress toward becoming a proper wizard was minuscule, well, Quirrell's letters had promised the professor's assistance. Harry would be able to catch up with his help, even get ahead perhaps.

* * *

Finally the day arrived, September first. Uncle Vernon drove him to the train station, though he scoffed at Harry's insistence that his platform was Nine and Three Quarters.

"There's nine, there's ten," Vernon said with a nasty smile. "Have a good term."

He turned to leave, and Harry smiled. The secret passageway was hidden in the barrier. He walked toward it slowly, tested it with his hand. It felt solid enough, but he pressed a little harder and felt his fingers slip through into nothing.

He brought his trolley around, pushed it through the passage and came out into the wizard's train station. A bright crimson steam engine waited next to the packed platform. Cats and owls were everywhere, students in robes and some in muggle clothes, parents giving last-minute instructions and farewells.

Harry felt suddenly very alone. He didn't see Professor Quirrell or Mr. Hagrid - no, _'just Hagrid'_ \- anywhere, and he had no idea who anyone was. He pushed aside the veil over his thoughts to help him more clearly remember Quirrell's letters of instructions from over the summer. Stand straight, be gracious, don't make promises. Be respectful to those of higher blood-status. He took a breath, stood as non-nervously as he could manage, and pushed his cart forward toward the train.

The first several compartments were filled, of course. Harry finally spotted an empty one, near the center, and tugged his cart over. A red-haired older student with a 'P' badge helped him load his trunk into the train, gave him an encouraging smile. Harry nodded politely.

He settled himself into the empty compartment, brought out his wand and schoolbooks. He hadn't finished reading most of them, the summer weather having been a great distraction. Despite the exotic subjects, they had still been _school books_ , which except from the standard book of spells meant they were dry and bland with far too much information that he'd never need to know.

The train whistle blew and the last few students rushed to climb aboard. A minute later, the train lurched into motion.

The door of the compartment slid open, and another boy with red hair peered in. "Is that spot taken?" he asked, pointing to the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head. "Just me."

The boy smiled, sat down. "Thanks." He held his hand out. "I'm Ron Weasley."

Harry shook his hand politely, gave a little nod. "Harry Potter."

From what he remembered of Professor Quirrell's extensive notes on students, Weasley was an ancient pureblood family. Despite their generally disgraceful behavior and lack of dignity, they were still worthy of respect.

Ron seemed stunned. "H.. Harry _Potter_?" he squeaked. "You're joking, right?"

Harry shook his head. "Do the maths," he said quietly, glancing at his stack of books. He was in two of them, which made him feel very strange.

Ron stared around the empty compartment. "I'm sorry I intruded. I can leave if you'd rather be alone to study."

Harry shook his head. "It's no bother."

Ron grinned. "Can you wait here a minute? I've _got_ to tell my brothers. They'll be so jealous I found you first."

Harry shrugged. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

Ron laughed, then left the compartment and hurried off. Harry turned his attention back to _Modern Magical History_. Ron hadn't been gone long before the compartment slid open, somehow quieter than before. A blond boy with a pale, pointed face entered, gazing at Harry with an appraising look.

"Is it true?" he asked, his voice sounding simultaneously interested and utterly bored. Harry was immediately intimidated.

"Is what true?" Harry asked, standing at once. He was fairly certain who this boy would be. The Malfoy heir, one of the most prominent and wealthy pureblood families left after the war with Lord Voldemort thinned the old lines to near breaking point.

"Weasel was shouting all down the train that Harry Potter was in this compartment. That's you, then?"

Harry nodded, gave a little bow, offered his hand. "Harry Potter, and you are?"

"Draco Malfoy," the boy replied, taking his hand. "You're associating with _Weasley_ already? That's not a very good start to your school career."

Harry shrugged. "He approached me, no one else had. And he is pureblood."

Draco smiled nastily at this. "Well, you'll have to learn that _some_ families are better than others. I can help you there."

"I don't doubt you can." Harry had the oddest feeling about this meeting, like he and Draco were dancing around each other with words beneath what they said, as though they were each trying to determine something about the other.

Harry didn't know what he was supposed to learn, and he didn't know what Malfoy was trying to find. He glanced away to the two larger boys flanking Draco.

"Vincent, and Gregory," Malfoy said, gesturing to each in turn. "My friends, allies. We could be friends and allies too, Potter."

 _Don't promise anything to anyone._ "I think we may be able to come to an arrangement," Harry said carefully. "I will keep your offer in mind. Thank you."

Draco watched him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Nice meeting you. Remember what I've said about Weasley, you would upset a lot of powerful people if you get yourself in too deep with someone like that."

Harry nodded again, waited politely until Draco and his friends had left the compartment before returning to his seat. His hands were shaking slightly, but he thought he'd done well. Talking to people was _stressful_. At least Ron hadn't seemed to want anything from him. He had the distinct impression that if he wasn't careful, Draco would soon have _Harry_ following at his shoulder like a servant or bodyguard.

He decided to keep Malfoy at a distance. He would be respectful, certainly, they could be valuable allies to one another. The Malfoy family was one of the most powerful in all of wizarding Britain. But Harry would not be anyone's servant, not here, not where he had a chance to be free and himself. And he had a feeling Malfoy wasn't used to being anything but the very best and the very highest authority.

Harry wasn't sure how best to go about proving that he was worth being on equal standing with someone who was so obviously above and beyond him in so many ways, but if there was one thing he was resolved in it was that he would _not_ accept subservience ever again.

He might not make many friends, Harry didn't even know where to start with _trying_ to do such a thing, but he could make allies. And he would, probably, make enemies along the way despite any attempts not to. Moving in any direction meant moving away from something else, and the school was too complicated and vast for him to move without consequence.

But he would not let that stop him. In primary school, he'd been alone and vulnerable. Weak. Isolated. The same would _not_ happen at Hogwarts.

Ron returned with two identical-looking older versions of himself. "See?" he demanded, pointing at Harry. "There he is!"

"So, you're Harry Potter?" asked the one on the right.

"I'm Fred Weasley," said the one on the left, holding out his hand.

The other one smacked it away. "I'm George Weasley," he said, holding his own hand toward Harry.

"Nice to meet you," Fred said, shoving his own hand in front of George's.

Harry sighed, shook both hands at the same time. "Nice to meet you both," he said politely. They certainly did not display much dignity.

"We hope you'll have a good term," they said together. "Just remember," Fred said. "The Weasley twins are the masters of pranks, call on us if ever you have need of our services."

George waved his wand dramatically, conjured a cloud of mist that drifted down around them. Harry heard them run off, laughing, as the fog dispersed from where they'd been standing.

He shook his head. No wonder Draco had been so disdainful of their family. They were _wizards_ , yet they spent their time running around playing pranks? How undignified could you _get_?

"Yeah, they can be a bit of a handful," Ron said. Harry realized he'd forgotten the younger Weasley was still there.

"Hmm," Harry said, noncommittally.

He didn't pay much attention as the boy talked at great length about Quidditch, which was one facet of wizarding life that Professor Quirrell had neglected to mention at all. It sounded exciting to play, but first years weren't allowed broomsticks and never made the team, so he consigned it to the unknowable distant future and tried to pay attention to his history book.

History was very dull, Harry decided, noticing that he'd been paying more attention to the talk of quaffles than of great events in wizarding history. He hoped the teacher would be able to make the subject interesting, then remembered that Professor Quirrell had said he was a particularly dull ghost who never varied his curriculum from year to year.

Harry groaned.

"Yeah, they should have called that a foul, I was incensed for weeks over it. But they won the next year, so it's alright now."

Harry glanced out the window as Ron carried on. He felt restless, contained. He wanted to walk around the train, but the thought of so many people staring at him made him sink back farther in his seat. He bounced his knees instead, tapping out the rhythm to a song running through his head.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" came a witch's voice.

Harry realized he was hungry, and jumped to his feet. He'd never had so much spending money before, or spending money at all to be honest, and was excited to try everything the wizard world had to offer.

He bought one of everything, and several of the chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties as they sounded the most obviously delicious. He spread it out on the seat beside him, trying to decide where to start.

"Pumpkin pasties are the best," Ron said approvingly. "Good to see you're a man of proper tastes."

Harry glanced over at him. The red-haired boy was watching the pile of sweets longingly.

"Did you want one?" Harry offered. He knew the Weasley family wasn't exactly wealthy, so Ron probably couldn't afford anything for himself. But he didn't want to offend a pureblood family by acting overly charitable. . .

Ron grinned. "Please!"

Harry tossed him over one, and opened his own. It didn't taste like anything he'd ever had before, but his exposure to sweets was admittedly quite limited. They demolished the pile between them, Ron explaining the finer points of each type of candy as Harry reached them.

The chocolate frogs came with cards, collectibles with _moving pictures_ of famous witches and wizards. Harry ended up with a Morgana, a Merlin, and two Dumbledores by the time they were through with the pile. He slipped past his veil, examined the portrait of Dumbledore appraisingly. The old wizard had twinkling eyes that somehow appeared cheerful and unknowable in the same moment, half-moon spectacles, and a calm look that made Harry think he knew absolutely everything about you.

He understood why Quirrell would want any private memories hidden, the look in that wizard's eyes was _intimidating_. Even if he couldn't really read minds, it made Harry feel much better knowing that his true secrets would be safe.

He let the veil drift back in place, obscuring that part of his mind, and examined the portrait again. Dumbledore looked deep, wise, and incredibly welcoming while aloof at the same time. He was the sort of person that you would instinctively trust, if you could get through the mystique and actually get close to him.

Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but now he had a face to put to the name.

The compartment door slid open again, this time to admit a fluffy-haired witch with a nervous-looking girl behind her. "Have any of you seen a toad?" she asked. "Nereva's has run off on her."

Harry shook his head. Ron mumbled, "nope" through a mouthful of chocolate.

She turned to leave, then stopped. "You're Harry?" she asked, looking him up and down. "They were saying, up front. . ." she let the sentence trail off.

"Yes," Harry replied.

"You're probably the most famous living wizard apart from Albus Dumbledore, you know," she said. "How does it feel?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know yet."

She laughed. "Good answer. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"The same," Harry said, shaking her hand. "Good luck finding your toad."

"It's not mine, it's Nereva's," she corrected automatically. "Have you tried any magic yet? We can, now we're on the train. I did a few simple spells, they all worked perfectly."

"I only know one," Harry said, bringing his wand up in a smooth arc. "Lumos," he whispered, and the tip flickered and glowed.

Hermione crossed her arms, nodded. "Not bad. Mine's not as bright, but it holds steadier. Is your wand defective?"

Harry's light flickered one last time and went out.

"Temperamental," he said. "Phoenix core wands can take longer to trust you."

"Really?" Hermione said, sounding shocked. "I didn't know that. I must find a book on wandlore, this is unacceptable."

She waved at them and departed, toadless Nereva in tow.

"Pretty nice," Ron said, glancing at Harry's wand. "Brand new?"

"Got it a month ago," Harry said. "You've had yours a long time?" he guessed.

"Not even mine, inherited it. Unicorn hair's almost coming out, if you wave it too hard." Ron stared at his worn wand glumly. "I bet I'll be rubbish with magic."

"Hmm," Harry replied noncommittally.

Ron brightened. "I have one spell to try."

He rolled up his sleeves, pulled a dead rat out of his pocket, and pointed his wand at it.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow," he intoned, waving his wand as though about to smack the rat over the head repeatedly.

Nothing happened. The rat lay there, quite grey.

From what little Harry had read on the subject, custom chant spells were notoriously difficult to create. Rhyming was unnecessary, often detrimental in fact, but the rhythm and flow of the words had to fit together with the wand motion and the intent behind the spell in some intricate and mysterious way.

There was a reason spells weren't invented willy-nilly for every little thing. Spellcrafting was incredibly complicated and often required an instinctive understanding of things beyond what you could learn from formulas. Gifted spellcrafters often turned out new spells by the dozens, while those without the knack for it just never seemed to manage.

"I think you're pronouncing it too distinctly," Harry said. "There shouldn't be so much emphasis on the words as words, they are part of the whole. You say DAIsies instinctively, try it daiSIEs, and emphasize melLOW."

Ron tried it again, but the rat didn't change.

"Are you sure you have the right wand movement?" Harry asked.

Ron scowled at him. "You're an expert on spells, now? Just because you can make a light? I can do _that_. Lumos."

His wand tip glowed feebly, but it was a steady light that didn't waver.

Harry glared back. "I'm not claiming to be an expert, but it obviously isn't working."

Ron sighed. "You're right. It's a rubbish spell. I bet it was just another prank, I should have known better than to think my brothers would tell me something _useful_."

"Hmm," Harry said, noncommittally.

* * *

The train arrived at the dark Hogwarts platform amid announcements. Leave your luggage on the train, it will be brought separately. First years were to wait in the field outside the station for direction, while other years went to the carriages.

Harry drifted away from the Weasley boy, stayed a bit more central and stood alone. He remembered Quirrell's letters, stood straight, looked ahead and didn't fidget. He would have loved to just run around the entire group in circles, work off some of his pent-up energy, but that would be the worst possible first impression to create for himself. There would be time to exercise later.

He felt so overwhelmed, he was glad that no one approached him. It was easier to hold his facade of strength by imagining people being intimidated.

In all likelihood, they were absorbed in their own affairs and gave no heed to the lone dark-haired boy with taped up glasses. He was glad he had wizard robes now, at least he wouldn't be showing up in Dudley's old things.

"Firs' years, this way!" shouted a familiar voice. Hagrid walked toward them, towering above the children, waving a lantern. "This way, follow me, firs' years!"

Harry joined the crowd trickling after the huge man, down a path that curved around and down to the lake. Lights from castle windows glowed out in the evening dark, stars and tower lights reflecting on the surface of the water.

Harry had never seen anything so beautiful.

They crossed the lake in a fleet of little boats, gliding along the mirror-calm surface. Then they swept under a curtain of hanging moss into a deep tunnel beneath the rock, right under the castle it seemed, and came to a rest against a pebbled shore.

Hagrid led them up the steps and around to the grounds, across the front yard to the huge oaken front door of Hogwarts Castle.

"Still got yer toad?" he asked Nereva. The girl was clutching the frequent runaway in both hands, nodded.

Hagrid raised his hand and pounded once on the door with an echoing _boom_. The door swung open. A tall black-haired witch wearing deep green robes stood watching them sternly. Harry was immediately intimidated. She pulled the doors open wide, led the little group into an entrance hall so huge Harry could have fit the Dursleys' entire house inside. Flaming torches lined the walls, and a magnificent marble stairway led up to the higher levels.

The witch led them to a small chamber off the hall. "Welcome to Hogwarts," she said. "I am Professor McGonagall, and your start of term feast will begin shortly. First, you will be Sorted into your houses. This is an extremely important ceremony because for the seven years you spend learning here, your house will be like your family. You will eat with your house, attend classes with your house, stay in your house dormitories, relax in your house common room. There are four houses, each with a great and noble history which you will doubtless learn a great deal about during your time here.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are at Hogwarts, your accomplishments will earn you house points, and any rulebreaking will lose house points. The house with the most points at the end of each year is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will do your best to be a credit to whatever house you are chosen for.

"The Sorting will begin in a few minutes, please wait here quietly. I'll return for you when we are ready. It will be in front of the rest of the school, so you may wish to tidy yourselves up a bit while you wait."

McGonagall nodded briskly, then swept out through another set of doors, leaving the first year students alone.

Whispers and mutters started up at once.

"How do they sort us?"

"Do we have to do magic?"

"I don't know any spells yet!"

"I wonder if I'm ready."

"I hope I'm not in Ravenclaw, I don't want to be stuck in the same house as my sister for the next four years."

"I heard it was a test, my brothers told me it really hurts."

Harry had no idea what to expect. He shouldn't be so nervous, but he was. Suddenly more nervous than he'd ever been about anything. He had one chance. One chance to make the right impression. Once sorted, that was _it_. He would be stuck in the same house. What if it was Hufflepuff? What if it was _Gryffindor_?

He tried to flatten his hair down, then forced himself to stand tall and not fidget. He watched Draco, standing tall and confident, speaking calmly to his friend Vincent and betraying no hint of anxiety. Mimic that poise. Show confidence even if there is none to draw upon.

"It'll be fine," Harry whispered to himself in parseltongue, realized what he was doing, and stopped quickly before someone noticed.

Poise. He watched the door, heart thudding wildly, not letting his face betray his fear.

Someone behind him screamed. He turned, wand raised by instinct, but it was only a collection of ghosts. He put his wand away, watched them curiously. They seemed so much less substantial than he'd imagined, always having pictured ghosts as more foglike or wispy, but these seemed somehow less solid and more real at once. Their outlines were sharp and vivid, but glimmering white and see-through.

The ghosts drifted through the wall, intent on an argument without hardly glancing at the assembled students. One, though, separated from the bunch while still arguing, paused to wave cheerily at them. "Greetings, newcomers! About to be sorted, of course. Hope to see you in Hufflepuff, that's my house you know. Tah!" He returned to the argument, drifting off through the other wall after the departing swarm of ghostly figures.

McGonagall returned, clapped her hands to quiet the speculation. "We're ready to begin, line up and follow me."

The line of first-years followed McGonagall through the side doors into the largest room Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was so far above that it seemed to vanish, in fact it looked as though there were only a row of elegant supporting struts and no ceiling at all.

"I read it was enchanted to look like the sky," Hermione Granger muttered from somewhere behind Harry.

Candles floated in the space between the sky-covered ceiling and the four long tables in the main area below. The candles were slightly different in colour and drifted slowly about, giving a mysterious shifting light to the entire scene.

Behind the first years, on the raised dais, was the faculty table. Longways across the hall, it faced out toward the assembled students. As did the nervous line of newcomers.

In front of them, between them and the rest of the students, sat a ragged old pointed hat on a stool. Harry wondered if he was supposed to pull something out of it, perhaps they _would_ be drawing houses by lot.

But then the hat opened a rip in its brim and started _singing_.

It was a silly song, but it described the virtues of each house and made him more sure than ever that he wanted to be in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. On the one hand, from the mutterings he'd heard about the train and through the students, Slytherin was seen as a house of villains. But it was his heritage, and he could dispel that stigma by proving himself there. Couldn't he?

But. . . what if he _was_ put in Slytherin? His parents were both Gryffindors, he was the most famous wizard of his age, but only a half-blood. They would probably _hate_ him. He thought himself rather clever, was good at finding ways to work things to his ends. But he hadn't had much opportunity to do so at home. Perhaps he wasn't good enough, perhaps he'd be a Hufflepuff after all. . .

"So we just try on the hat?" Ron's voice sounded relieved. "I'm gonna kill Fred, he had me all worried."

Harry wasn't ready. He was too young, too inexperienced. Why would such an important, life-shaping decision be made so frivolously at the very start of his first year?

 _Poise. Strength_. He could do this. He would _not_ panic.

"I will call you forward by name, sit down and put on the hat to be sorted," McGonagall said, opening a parchment scroll.

She began calling names, and students began stepping forward. Each sat for a moment, several moments, or hardly at all, and then the hat would call out their house. The first two were both Hufflepuffs, and then a scattering of others. Hermione ended up in Gryffindor, as did Nereva-with-the-toad. Draco and his two friends went to Slytherin.

Harry was getting more and more nervous. Why did his last name have to be so far down the line? He wanted it over with. But then it was almost his turn. Why couldn't he have been _farther_ down the line? He wasn't ready for this.

"Potter, Harry."

He stepped forward stiffly, forced himself to hold his head high and not betray the pounding nervousness that made him feel ill. He heard the whispers start up among the students below, smiled faintly. This was the first most of them had seen him.

Then he was by the stool, and he reached out with trembling hands and set the hat on his head.

"Hmm, well now, what have we here? Quite a mind you have, and a good bit of courage too. You'd do well in Gryffindor, you know. You are braver than you think."

There was a voice in his ear, whispering gently, but he tensed and had to stop himself leaping off the stool in shock.

"I don't want to be a hero," he whispered back. "I want to live."

"Oh, you want much more than that, my boy. You can be great."

Harry instinctively tried to say he didn't care about that, but the words caught in his throat. He _did_ want to be great. He wanted to prove the Dursleys wrong, show that he wasn't worthless. He wanted to show the world that he wasn't done. That he was more than a baby a curse had bounced off of. He wanted to learn all he could, find new ways, make new discoveries. Change the world.

"You are an eager one, aren't you?" the hat whispered. "Most would think that list of yours lines up perfectly with Ravenclaw, but you wouldn't be happy there. You're clever, determined, but not studious. You need a more practical application for your intellect; you seek knowledge for ambitions' sake, not its own merits. And if you're sure you won't take Gryffindor, then that only leaves one place for you."

Harry hoped fervently that he wasn't about to say Hufflepuff. He didn't think he'd survive the pressure of being around that many friendly people for the next seven years.

"SLYTHERIN," the hat declared aloud.

Harry grinned with relief, his fears temporarily forgotten. He swept the hat off and bowed to it as he replaced it on the stool. "Thank you," he said quietly, to scattered laughter from the mostly-silent room behind him, then strode proudly over to the green and silver table.

* * *

 _Author's Note: This will be the last chapter for a while. Now that Part One is posted, I'll be shifting my attention to giving it a thorough editing before returning to posting new content. This will take some time, as I'm going to be continuing to work on the first-draft of later chapters as well, and also have four other in-progress fics to write in between. I'm setting aside November, national novel writing month, to focus on finishing the first Hogwarts arc, but will not be resuming posting until these first chapters are edited._

 _I estimate that it will take until mid-January to early-February of next year (2018) at my current rate of progress before I'm able to resume, though fair warning that it may be longer. I don't want to just slap up half-baked chapters and then have to do major retractions. (As it is, I may end up changing things significantly enough in this first part, and it's considerably shorter than those remaining.)_

 _Thank you all for your enthusiasm thus far! It's always incredibly encouraging to see new favourites or reviews.  
_

 _(And please, if you've noticed anything in what I've posted so far that I should address while editing, now is the time to mention it.)_

 _See y'all in a few months~_


	11. Welcome to Slytherin

_Welcome to Slytherin_

* * *

The great hall exploded with whispers, scattered with cheers and voices raised in protest. Harry strode firmly toward the green-draped table, though before he'd traversed half the distance he began to worry he'd chosen wrongly. What if he wasn't clever enough? What if his unformed ambitions were too weak-willed and he couldn't prove himself worthy?

Worse still, what if his fellow students _noticed_ how unworthy he was? He wanted to honour his ancestors' memory, from whom he had inherited their greatest gift, but what if he only brought shame to them instead?

He knew he was worthless, he shouldn't have imagined otherwise. Why had he let himself get swept along in this farce? Everyone expecting so much from him. Well, they'd see the truth soon enough. He struggled to hold back frustrated tears. That would _not_ make a good first impression.

And yet. . .?

As he neared the table, the students in green-trimmed robes rose to greet him, smiles and eagerness on every face. He was surrounded immediately, friendly greetings exchanged and names offered so rapidly he knew he'd remember none of them. Offers of favours, promises of assistance should he ever need it, requests for protection or power or alliances or future exchange of mutual benefit, everything he could possibly have imagined wanting was offered for trade in a rush and a babble that left him stunned and completely overwhelmed.

He should nod politely, say he'd consider it, and extricate himself.

But instead, faced with so much eagerness and cheer, he felt suddenly trapped. Surrounded, he felt the instinct to duck and flee so strongly that it took all his effort to remain standing, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

It was even worse than his imagined fate as a hufflepuff. He opened his mouth, breathing hard, unable to speak or even think clearly, when someone slapped a hand down on the table. It was a quiet sound, almost lost in the babble, but Harry caught it and focused on the motion.

A girl, pug-faced and scowling, was glaring at the cluster surrounding him.

"I believe," she said in a clear carrying voice, "that Mr. Potter would prefer some privacy and personal space at present."

This dissuaded only the younger Slytherins, the elder students ignored the girl completely. But Harry seized on her as a focus. Pushing away the panic and immobility, he took a step toward her and then, encouraged by how the others fell away at his movement, strode quickly around the end of the table and came to sit beside her.

He sank into the seat beside her with a relieved sigh, as the others could now only approach him a few at a time and she was glaring about at them haughtily in a way which clearly discouraged all but the most determined.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly.

"You owe me one now, don't you?" she asked, smiling up at him from behind her eyelashes.

"I can't promise anything at the moment," Harry said, thinking of Quirrell's advice to be sure he knew exactly what he was agreeing to and thinking through the possible future of that choice. "But I am grateful."

"Good enough for now," she said, then twisted in her seat to offer him her hand. "I'm Pansy."

"Harry," Harry replied, taking the offered hand. "Though, everyone already knows that."

"Of course we do," she said, then held up a hand as the next student's name was called. A similar hush came across the whole room, most students pausing to look at the front of the hall.

"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the Sorting Hat, and the blue-draped table broke into applause as the boy replaced the hat and hurried to join his new classmates.

Pansy made a quick notation on her parchment, scribbles which bore only the faintest resemblance to proper words.

"What's that?" Harry asked. Appearing involved in a conversation could distract the other well-wishers and those desperate to curry his favour, and hopefully prevent them from interrupting.

"I'm cataloging the students," she replied as though this were a natural sort of thing to do. "So far, I only know those in our year," she said, pointing to a group of names in four columns. "And a few of my own acquaintance of course," she added. "I'm planning to ask the other girls who they know, and should have a thorough overview of the school's students by the end of the year."

"Why?" Harry asked. "That sounds like a lot of work."

Her eyes seemed to glitter in the candlelight. "It will be worth it," she declared firmly, then paused to write the next name, another Ravenclaw.

Harry hesitated. "Why, though? What is the point?"

"Knowledge is power, and understanding is the foundation of negotiation," she whispered. "For instance. How many people noticed than you didn't want to be the center of attention? Twelve. How many chose to act on that understanding? One. And how many other Slytherins have the chance to carry on an actual conversation with you?"

She paused meaningfully, glanced back and forth along the table. "Only me. Understanding and knowledge need to be applied, subtly or forcefully as the situation requires."

Harry frowned slightly. "Are you admitting to manipulating me into talking with you?" he asked.

"You catch on quickly," she said. "But no, I'm only pointing out that the proper application of knowledge can open all sorts of opportunities that would be closed to those with less understanding of their fellows. Draco Malfoy has been watching you with that peculiarly possessive expression ever since the hat called your name."

Harry glanced involuntarily toward where the Malfoy heir sat, halfway down the table, surrounded by his friends Vincent and Gregory, talking with another new Slytherin boy.

"He, by the way," Pansy added in a lower voice, "was one of those who understood your desire but hesitated to act. He likely would have made a move soon, if I had not beaten him to it. Waiting to make you more desperate, more grateful. He doesn't understand you quite as well as I."

"You don't make a very strong case for yourself as an ally," Harry said.

She raised her eyebrows, the expression stretching her face in a less than attractive way. "Don't I? I thought it was very convincing, myself."

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat called out, and 'Sibazaki, Reiko' came to join the table. The first new Slytherin since Harry himself.

Pansy noted down her name, then stood long enough to smile and introduce herself to the newcomer. Reiko tugged at her sleeve nervously, but was quickly folded into a group of girls who seemed to be in awe of her deep black hair.

Pansy glanced toward the group, watching for a long moment, then began scribbling notes in the margins beside the column of 'Slytherin' names. Harry couldn't read any of it, though he could make out a few letters here and there. It must be some kind of shorthand.

"How could I ever trust you weren't manipulating me?" Harry asked.

"Because I know that you're more valuable as an ally than _anyone_ else I could possibly approach," Pansy said at once. "Truthfully, were you in another house, I would be even now sitting at Draco's side. Understanding and power, Harry. But, I think, you need me more than he would. And as you are more valuable to me than he is, I am more valuable to you than any other girl would be."

Harry sighed. "I have only your word on that."

"Then give it a try," Pansy said, gesturing at the rest of the table. While most were either talking to each other or watching the Sorting, Harry saw a surprising number whose attention remained fixed on _him_.

"I'll just go chat with Draco, shall I?" Pansy asked, moving as though to roll up her parchment and stand.

"No," Harry said quickly, almost reflexively. "Don't go."

She smiled at him, leaned closer to him. "I won't leave you, Harry," she said. "If you want, I'll stay as long as you need me."

Harry knew he should be getting second opinions. Knew he should be politely refusing to make any commitments. Knew that she was probably an expert manipulator, and she'd only confided what she had in him to make him believe in her offer.

But she had come to him offering help, and more than merely offering she had proven herself. She had chosen him, even over _Draco Malfoy_.

In that moment, without any intentional decision, Harry found himself categorizing Pansy as a friend and ally.

"I would like you to stay," he said.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat, and Pansy wrote another name.

Harry fell silent, observing. Pansy continued to record the results of the Sorting and also kept a sharp eye on developments at the table, taking notes all the while. The few times other Slytherins worked up their courage to approach him, she intercepted them sharply and redirected them to 'come back another time, Mr. Potter has much more important things to contemplate at present.'

Harry wasn't sure that was an entirely accurate description of his mental processes, but it was good enough to keep them from swarming him and that meant it wasn't something he would argue against.

As he finally relaxed from the unexpected tension of his greeting, he realized that he still hadn't looked for Professor Quirrell. Glancing up to the head table, he caught his mentor's eye and smiled, gave a little wave. Quirrell, wearing a purple turban this time, smiled back with a deep nod of acknowledgment. His robes on this occasion were much more elegant than before and gave him a somewhat exotic appearance.

Harry's attention wandered across the staff table, trying to match the appearances to the names and descriptions from Quirrell's letters. Binns, the ghost, was the easiest to recognize. He floated somewhat distractedly, patting at his pockets and looking confused. Flitwick should be obvious as well, if Harry could find him. . . ah, there, beside a stern-looking witch who may have been Madame Pince or Madame Pomfrey, or Madam Hooch, for that matter.

"Do you know the teachers?" Harry asked, leaning toward Pansy.

"Hmm. . . that one on the end with black hair, beside the turban guy, is Professor Snape. He's the potions master and our head of house. The short woman with flowers in her hair is Professor Sprout, and I think she's in charge of Hufflepuff." Pansy fell silent a moment, scribbled down another name as the Gryffindor table cheered.

"The one with the turban is Professor Quirrell," Harry said, proud to have something to contribute. "He'll be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Quirrell?" Pansy scoffed. "The old muggle studies teacher? _He's_ going to be teaching _defence_? Oh, we are _so_ going to fail this year."

"Why?" Harry asked, feeling immediately defencive. "What do you have against Quirrell?"

"He's a _muggle-loving Ravenclaw_ , for one thing. And just look at him, he can't be much more than twenty-five. I guess Hogwarts is getting desperate."

Harry found he didn't quite like Pansy as much as he had a few minutes before. "He's very knowledgeable," he said defiantly.

Pansy shrugged. "He's a Ravenclaw, of course he'll _seem_ clever. Just wait until we're stuck in one of his classes."

"You'll see," Harry said confidently. "He's brilliant."

Pansy didn't appear convinced, but then "Zabini, Blaise," joined their table as the Sorting ceremony came to its end.

* * *

"Now, before we begin our fine feast, I should like to say a few words," said the headmaster, standing up.

Harry watched him with an odd sense of disconnect. Part of him thought that he oughtn't be so openly staring, though he couldn't be sure why, and Harry had to resist the strange instinct to look away and very much _not_ meet the man's eyes. The larger and stronger part of him thought that the headmaster was positively sparkling with magic and power and the kindly nature that tends to emanate from certain types of older people.

For a brief moment, Harry was aware of a struggle within him. A certainty that this man _could not be trusted_ warred with the absolute surety that Dumbledore was only and would only _ever_ work for Harry's ultimate good.

Then the strange sensation passed, leaving him merely confused as the headmaster spoke in a carrying voice.

"Beryl, squeak, hodgepodge, arbitrary. Thank you."

Harry looked down at his plate, not enlightened in the least. And the moment he turned away from the headmaster the veil in his mind parted, allowing his true and full understanding to flood him.

For some reason, still unknown to him, the headmaster had forced Harry to live with his hateful muggle family instead of placing him with a wizard family who might have actually cared about him. For some reason, the headmaster had chosen to deny anyone the ability to so much as _visit_ Harry.

 _Watcher. Adversary._

He knew he couldn't keep that knowledge always, but for a moment he held the veil open so he could remind himself of his true purposes here. Power. Strength.

Ambition. Truth.

* * *

Unfortunately, the conclusion of the Sorting and the headmaster's speech also seemed to be unspoken code for 'Harry's had enough time to himself, let's go ask him questions now!' among the Slytherins at the table.

Though Pansy did her best to run interference, there were just too _many_ people and she could only guard the one direction, and there were voices babbling over each other and people leaning across the table. . .

How had he _really_ defeated 'you-know-who'? Where had he been the past ten years? How did he manage to end up in Slytherin? Was this a trick of Dumbledore's? Did he want to be friends? Could they get his autograph? What was his favourite quidditch team? Did he know any secret magic he could share? Did he need a bodyguard? Did he really have a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt? What had it felt like to survive the Killing Curse?

Harry instinctively shrank down in his seat, feeling trapped, wanting to hide. He couldn't flee, couldn't make them leave. He had to answer something, anything, just to satisfy them.

He stood up slowly, the strain of not showing his fear enough to occupy his full attention.

"I wanted to be placed in Slytherin," he said, his voice somehow calm. "It wasn't a trick, no plan of anyone else's. Just. . . what I wanted."

He ducked his head and resumed his seat, and this time Pansy was able to fend them off more successfully. Discussing his revelation took precedence over pressing for more, and as the food appeared their attention was again diverted.

Still, they came. Not in a crowd now, individually, but with hardly a pause between them.

"Cole Spencer, pleased to meet you Harry. And I'd always be available if you need someone to talk to." An older boy, maybe third year. Pansy made a note on her parchment.

"I don't agree with everything you've done, Potter, but you've certainly managed to pique my interest. I'll be watching." A much older boy, who didn't give his name, and acted as though everyone already knew it. Pansy made a note on her parchment.

"If you're intending to curry favour with the remaining noble families, you're not going about it very well." This from a younger girl, probably second year, who gave a derisive sniff and looked down at Pansy with obvious distaste. "You can't go by old books, you know; _Parkinson_ hasn't been much use to anyone, these days."

"She's of use to _me_ ," Harry said firmly.

The girl shrugged dismissively and left, but she wasn't the only one to look at Pansy as though she were something disgusting and far beneath Harry's status. A handful of girls looked up to Pansy, but the vast majority looked down on her and anyone who associated with her.

Finally the other Slytherins slowed their approach, becoming absorbed either in eating or talking to those more willing to converse freely, leaving Harry and Pansy more or less to themselves.

"Youngest Weasley boy is in our year," Pansy said, waving her spoon to indicate the Gryffindor table. "I heard his father tried to introduce some bludger-brained new legislation about muggles last month, thankfully it was shot down promptly. Those blood-traitors have always been too concerned with maintaining their reputation as entirely the wrong sort. Defending muggles, can you imagine?"

Harry shook his head, holding his fork a little more aggressively than strictly necessary. "Muggles don't need or deserve anything from us," he said, glancing toward the red-headed Gryffindor. "He was in my compartment on the train, wouldn't stop talking."

Pansy flipped her hair out of her face and leaned even closer to Harry. "That shouldn't be a problem from now on. You won't have to associate with his type any longer."

Harry nodded, grateful, and helped himself to more potatoes. He thought he could get used to life here in the castle very, very easily.

* * *

Toward the end of the meal, Pansy checked that they weren't being closely observed and leaned over almost nervously to whisper in his ear, "I don't mind, if you don't want to be seen with me. I understand your need to maintain your image."

She hesitated, then passed her paper over to Harry. "I can make another one. You should have it. It'll be essential for you in these first days to make a good impression."

"No," Harry said, pushing the paper back to her. She looked hurt, so he hurried to explain. "I'm not going to send you away or something like that. You were the _only_ one to stand up for me. You can make another one for me, with your original as reference. It'll be easier that way, right?"

She smiled at him, an almost unnatural-looking expression which didn't do much for her pug-like face, but Harry grinned back freely. People would judge _him_ for associating with _her_ , but secretly envy her for being able to get close to him.

He didn't care if the Parkinson family were the least popular wizards in Slytherin. Harry would _not_ abandon the first person his age to care about him. Even if she only wanted to talk to him because of his fame, she had taken the extra effort to understand what he'd wanted, not just tried to shove her way into his life like all the others.

It was his first time making a friend, knowing that Dudley wouldn't ever be able to force them apart. For once, even if only by an exaggerated reputation, Harry could be an _asset_ to a relationship rather than a detriment.

Harry smiled. Understanding as power. Perhaps their ambitions could align, him and Pansy.

He found that he genuinely hoped they could.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I am still working to tidy up the earlier chapters with my wonderful beta, but as this is my first time doing a proper edit/rewrite of anything I find it is taking rather longer than I'd at first anticipated. I don't want to hold up this project indefinitely, so update chapters will be released as-is moving forward, and beta'd and updated eventually. {And, quite honestly, I suspect that will make the story better in the long run, my having more experience and distance while editing.}_

 _In the meantime, I'm aiming for thrice-monthly updates. Currently (tentatively) scheduled for the 3rd, 14th, and 25th of each month beginning in March. However, as these chapters are longer than any of my other projects, this may prove unsustainable. We shall see._

 _I'll be posting an interlude section within the next few days, outside of the regular update schedule, which contains a list of students as utilized in this series since I'll be expanding upon them to some degree throughout the series. (This same student roster will be used in any other HP projects I write_ _unless otherwise stated.)_

 _Thank you for your patience, and thank you all for reading!_


	12. Interlude: 1991 Student List at Sorting

_Author's Note:_ _Since I've taken considerable liberties with the world, and there may not be a reason or place to introduce the minor characters, this is the official lineup for the Heir of Darkness series (and any other HP-related fics I may write, since I've put a lot of effort into researching what's available and making up what isn't.) I have been building a genealogy of wizards and will eventually have a full connection chart for all of them, but that may not be finished for years.  
_

 _If anyone reading this has an OC they would like to have cameo in my stories, I'm happy to add to my roster. Needless to say, any fellow writers are more than welcome to borrow any of this for your own writing should you so desire._

* * *

SORTING CLASS of 1991 is as follows:

* * *

Hannah Abbot (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - halfblood, June 18

Susan Bones (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - halfblood, December 3

Terry Boot (m) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, November 6

Mandy Brocklehurst (f) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, December 17

Lavender Brown (f) - GRYFFINDOR - pureblood, May 11

Milicent Bulstrode (f) - SLYTHERIN - halfblood, February 24

Michael Corner (m) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, March 24

Stephen Cornfoot (m) - RAVENCLAW - pureblood, October 30

Vincent Crabbe (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, September 3

Tracey Davis (f) - SLYTHERIN - halblood, January 9

Fay Dunbar (f) - GRYFFINDOR - pureblood, August 24

Kevin Entwhistle (m) - RAVENCLAW - muggleborn, September 22

Justin Finch-Fletchley (m) - HUFFLEPUFF - muggleborn, June 22

Leanne Fin (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, February 25

Seamus Finnegan (m) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, November 23

Terrence Fogarty (m) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, December 14

Cordelia Gifford (f) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, September 20

Anthony Goldstein (m) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, March 31

Gregory Goyle (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, September 9

Hermione Granger (f) - GRYFFINDOR - muggleborn, Setember 19

Daphne Greengrass (f) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, September 30

Amanda Hooch (f) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, October 27

Wayne Hopkins (m) - HUFFLPUFF - halfblood, January 23

Kellah Johnson (f) - GRYFFINDOR - pureblood, January 11

Megan Jones (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, January 2

Sue Li (f) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, October 3

Gabriel Lithgow (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, August 19

Nereva Longbottom (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, July 30

Isobel MacDougal (f) - RAVENCLAW - pureblood, October 19

Morag MacDougal (f) - GRYFFINDOR - pureblood, July 3

Ernest Macmillan (m) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, June 13

Draco Malfoy (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, June 5

Roger Malone (m) - RAVENCLAW - muggleborn, February 28

Byron Miller (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, December 30

Lily Moon (f) - RAVENCLAW - muggleborn, January 20

Shawn Morris (m) - SLYTHERIN - halfblood, May 2

David Nolton (m) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, January 17

Theodore Nott (m) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, December 24

Maxine O'Flaherty (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - halfblood, March 21

Pansy Parkinson (f) - SLYTHERIN - halflood, April 9

Padma Patil (f) - RAVENCLAW - halfblood, February 2

Parvati Patil (f) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, February 2

Mildred Peebles (f) - SLYTHERIN - halfblood, August 13

Sally-Anne Perks (f) - GRYFFINDOR - halfblood, March 5

Roy Pike (m) - SLYTHERIN - halfblood, April 15

(Harry Potter*)

Oliver Rivers (m) - RAVENClAW - muggleborn, May 1

Sophie Roper (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - halfblood, July 7

Angel Runcorn (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, July 19

Ophelia Rushden (f) - RAVENCLAW - muggleborn, November 29

Reiko Sibazaki (f) - SLYTHERIN - pureblood, November 6

Sally Smith (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - pureblood, June 14

Dean Thomas (m) - GRYFFINDOR - halblood, March 22

Alice Tolipan (f) - HUFFLEPUFF - muggleborn, November 9

Darrel Turner (m) - HUFFLEPUFF - halfblood, May 14

Lisa Turpin (f) - RAVENClAW - halfblood, October 17

Emma Vanity (f) - RAVENCLAW - muggleborn, April 18

Ronald Weasley (m) - GRIFFINDOR - pureblood, March 1

Blaise Zabini (m) - SLYTHERIN - blood status unclear, March 4

* * *

Gryffindor: 8 girls, 5 boys | 5 pureblood, 7 halfblood, 1 muggleborn

Hufflepuff: 10 girls, 4 boys | 6 pureblood, 6 halfblood, 2 muggleborn

Ravenclaw: 9 girls, 7 boys | 2 pureblood, 8 halfblood, 6 muggleborn

Slytherin: 9 boys, 6 girls | 8 pureblood, 7 halfblood

* * *

 _*Harry is not included in the data, since I'll be reusing this roster for various other fics where he's in other houses._

* * *

 _If interested in more details like this, I've begun posting (somewhat less complete) lists of students from past Sorting classes on my forum. I don't know if it'll be any use to anyone, but it's there. I'll post random stuff on occasion, or whatever. Mostly polls at present. The link is in my profile, since FFnet doesn't seem to like links in stories._  
 _ _  
__

 _I'd like to do another world-info interlude when we reach the break between arcs 2 and 3 (a long long ways off at present) but am currently unsure of what form it should take. Any suggestions?_


	13. New Beginnings

_New Beginnings_

* * *

As the feast wound to a close, the headmaster stood up again.

"I have a few start of term notices to give you all, now that we've had our lovely dinner. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is off limits to all students unless accompanied by a teacher, due to a long-standing infestation of acromantula. So long as we leave them be, they will not leave the forest or harm us.

"Mr. Filch has requested you be sternly reminded that using magic in the corridors between classes is against our school policy, and a punishable offense. As is possessing any of the _considerable_ list of banned items, which Mr. Filch has posted on his office door for your convenience. Quidditch trials will be held next week, contact Madam Hooch for details.

"Lastly, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is restricted for dragon training exercises, and I must emphasize that under _no_ circumstances are students to approach that area unless accompanied by myself, the gamekeeper, or at the specific direction of the Care of Magical Creatures teacher until I inform you otherwise. Thank you."

Whispers erupted across the great hall.

"Did he say _dragon_ training?"

"Want to sneak up there and take a look?"

"Now I wish I'd taken Care of Magical Creatures, it always sounded so dull."

"Hogwarts _never_ had a dragon before!"

"This is going to be the best year ever!"

"Now," the Headmaster's voice cut across the chatter, bringing the hall to silence again, "let us sing the Hogwarts School Song. Everyone pick a tune and sing it loud!"

He waved his wand, causing the lyrics to appear hovering in the air over the head table, then started everyone off by singing to a syncopated tune which did _not_ fit the words at all. A few first years tried to follow his example, but then the whole rest of the school was bellowing it out to different tunes, at different speeds.

Harry froze for a moment, as Pansy sang along to a bouncing melody which may have been beautiful if performed by a better singer, but the cacophony was too joyous and enthusiastic for him not to join in. He stood and sang the inane words to a tune he made up as he went along, but found himself grinning and laughing as he finished. As though the song had leeched out his last remaining uncertainty and fear, leaving him freer than ever before.

Then it was over, a few holdouts singing to a slow funeral chant which Dumbledore conducted with his wand, a tear in his twinkling eye.

"Ah, music," the headmaster said. "True magic, that requires no wand to cast. Thank you all. Prefects, please lead the first-years to your houses. Everyone else, off to bed with you. Sleep well!"

He cheerfully shooed at the assembled students, waving them toward the doors.

Pansy took Harry's arm and they joined the pack of first-years following the Slytherin prefects through the halls and down to a blank wall in the dungeons.

"Hydra," the prefect declared, and the wall parted like a curtain, stone rippling and flowing away to reveal a wide archway. Harry and Pansy followed the older students into a curving hallway, then down another flight of steps.

The common room itself was six-sided, a long irregular hexagon with the entry archway at one end and a white-gold blazing fire at the other in a heavily ornamented fireplace. Above the fireplace hung the Slytherin banner, emblazoned with the words written in a language Harry couldn't read. Two smaller fires with the same gold-white flames were spaced about midway on the near sides, while additional archways filled the two far sides making an even division.

The walls were heavy stone, much like the rest of the dungeons, but that was where any similarity with the rest of the castle ended. All around the room were heavy tapestries and flowing gossamer draperies, different shades of green and silver. Between the ornamental fabrics hung portraits of notable Slytherin alumni, several of which nodded in greeting to the newcomers.

Warm green light shone from lanterns hanging from the ceiling - no, the _window_. The ceiling was made of six massive sections of glass that curved gently up to peak directly over the center of the room. The lantern globes didn't seem to actually connect to the vast window, shining threads of silver fading before quite reaching it.

Harry gasped aloud as everyone turned to stare up at the dim lakewater moving above them, illuminated from below by the lights of their room. A man with a fish's tail swam past overhead, paused to give a stern nod of greeting to those staring up at him, then continued away with his long dark hair rippling out behind him.

"That. . . that. . ." Harry said in a whisper, unable to form his thoughts into coherence.

"Merman," Pansy confirmed, and he heard his own awe reflected in her voice. "I've never seen one before either."

Most of the other first-years seemed equally impressed, as they stared up and around at the room.

"First years and prefects, this way," called the oldest female prefect, waving them forward. "Everyone else, get on to bed. No complaining, you can sit around another time."

Harry followed Pansy forward until they were about centered in the room, the older students disappearing through the other two archways.

"Welcome to Slytherin. I'm Gemma Farley. This is Kyle, Raymond, over there is Amelia, and our newest prefects Zubeida and Michael." Gemma indicated the prefects by turn, standing beside her in a semi-arc. Harry heard Pansy scribbling notes beside him, but he could hardly keep up. Was Kyle the brown-haired one?

"We're here to help and guide you through your year," Gemma continued, "so if you have questions, don't hesitate to come to one of us. Zubeida and Michael are entering their OWLs year, so if you could be considerate of their time. I'm only taking three NEWTs, so I'll be available more than the rest."

Gemma paused, glancing over the students. "Now, there are some important things you should know about Slytherin. First, hands up, anyone who knew what the houses were before getting their letter."

Pansy raised hers. Harry wasn't sure what to do, hesitated, but abstained.

"Any of you have relatives in Slytherin?"

Pansy kept her hand raised. Draco, Vincent, and Goyle snickered among themselves, their hands remaining up as well.

"Most of you, good. Hands down, thank you. Listen carefully, all of you," Gemma said, her voice firm. "There is a lot said about us, a heavy reputation that has built around Slytherin these past few decades. How we only practice Dark magic, or how your family has to be completely Pureblood since the age of Merlin if you want to get anywhere. This is _not true_. We simply understand that there is no such thing as Dark magic, all magic is guided by ourselves and our intentions. Many of the simple jinxes that students casually fling at one another in the halls now would have been considered Dark a hundred years ago.

"This is the house of the ambitious. Those who will succeed at all cost. You are here because you have that spark of greatness within you, whether you know it or not, regardless of who you are and where you come from. And this is where we are better than the other houses, and they don't even know it. We _always_ stick together. We know we're the best, we know _you_ are the best, the elite. Slytherin means strength, Slytherin means victory. There's a reason we've won the House Cup the past _six years running_ and it's not because _I'm_ good on a broom."

Several students laughed, but Harry didn't understand why.

"We snakes cover each other's backs, compensate for each other's weaknesses. And, of course, point those weaknesses out so you can learn to cover them for yourself. Making you stronger, making me stronger, it all makes _us_ stronger. Everything you can do for yourself, or for your fellow Slytherins, all contributes to our house's supremacy.

"You may see others far ahead of you and assume you'll never reach 'that' level. You may see others far behind you and know they'll never reach _your_ level. But the destination isn't the same for all of us, and the true battle is _progress_. I doubt anything I do in my lifetime will ever match up to Harry Potter, or Albus Dumbledore. But I _know_ that what I accomplish will be _my_ victory, _our_ victory."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Gemma continued talking without noticing.

"And you don't need to be _born_ great. You may be born with an advantage, but everyone has an advantage over someone. All that matters is what you choose to do with what you have."

Gemma stepped back and the oldest male prefect, the one she'd called Kyle, stepped forward to address them.

"Now, in the immediate future, you'll be confronted with those from other houses who believe we're all a bunch of evil gits and that gives them the right to trample on your dreams and put you down. You are welcome to fulfill their expectations if it makes you happy, I can't deny a certain pleasure in crushing Gryffindor's hopes for victory year after year, but always remember two things: delayed victory is still victory, and reputation can be more powerful than direct action.

"Slytherin is the house of the cunning. We understand that it takes more than bravery to win, more than friendship to succeed, and more than intelligence to prosper. So if you find it expedient to engage in direct conflict with those who don't care to understand our strengths, do so with correct preparation and some friends to back you up.

"And remember, you really don't need to always hex that Gryffindor even if he's asking for it, or outsmart that Ravenclaw who just twists your words around on you. Sometimes the knowledge that we're going to beat them again this year, and the year after that, and the year after that, is enough."

Kyle chuckled. "Then again, it can be incredibly cathartic to have it out with someone like that. Or wait until they think you're an easy target, then prove just how wrong they are. Just remember, _don't get caught breaking any rules_. We have a house cup to hold onto."

He stepped back and Gemma resumed with a smile.

"I know it's late and you're all tired. We're nearly done here, just a few more things. The Bloody Baron is our house ghost, and he can sometimes be convinced to help you out if you want someone intimidated. Just be polite and don't ask prying questions about his past or _especially_ his death.

"Our password changes twice a month, keep an eye on the noticeboard. And this is _very important_. You must _never_ tell anyone from another house where our entry is or what our password is. You must never bring anyone from another house here, even if it's your best most trusted friend or twin brother, I don't care. We haven't had an outsider disturb the sanctity of this house in over seven hundred years and we're _not_ going to start now. Understood?"

"Understood," Harry and Pansy echoed back, along with the other first-years.

"Alright!" Gemma said cheerily. "That's everything for now." She gestured to the archways behind her. "Girls, on the right, boys on the left. You'll find your luggage in one of the rooms marked '1st year'. Congratulations to you all! I know you'll have an incredible year."

* * *

 _Author's Note : July 31, 2018 __Slight edit_ _to fix unfinished sentence._


	14. A Morning Meeting

**_Part Two:_ Directionless**

* * *

 _A Morning Meeting  
_

* * *

Worthwhile as a friend. Worth being a friend to at all. Such foreign concepts, Harry had a hard time internalizing them at all. He woke several times during the night, convinced that this was all just a dream, but the faint shimmer of the lake above reassured him that Hogwarts was real.

Professor Quirrell had tried to prepare him, but words couldn't describe what Hogwarts meant to Harry. Even after only one night there was something unbelievably freeing about just being in the castle. The atmosphere could hardly have been more opposite the Dursleys' house. A chaotic, beautiful, inexplicable place of wonder and freedom.

Even if he didn't yet feel any more powerful or self-assured, he felt lighter. He hadn't realized how much weight living with the Dursleys had placed on his mind until it was gone, his mind free and his horizons unrestrained.

The lake was still dark overhead as Harry stood and stretched, too full of energy to return to sleep. His roommates were all still asleep, so he moved quietly as he washed and dressed and carefully made his bed.

He was good at moving quietly. No one so much as stirred as he slipped out of the dorm, closing the door softly behind him. Harry resisted the urge to run down the hall, down the stairs to the common room. He had so much eager energy rushing through him, he could hardly bear to move slowly and carefully.

The common room was decorated comfortably, clusters of armchairs and sofas scattered about, tables of various sizes in matching styles scattered between. The candles hanging from the ceiling in green globes still glowed, though the white wall-torches were unlit and the fire in the hearth burned low, giving the place a cozy dimness. The room was actually a bit chilly, though Harry hardly minded.

He circled the outer walls, glad of the chance to fully examine the room without everyone else about. Portraits of past Slytherin alumni nodded or waved at him as he passed their frames, though most were asleep. Each was labeled with their name and year, occasionally another few lines were inscribed beneath them.

'Minister for Magic' here, 'Hero of the Battle of Starhill' there, 'Author of' this or that. But most were simply the portrait and the name and date, the manner of earning the right to ornament these walls unspoken.

He was so focused on the walls that only a sharp hiss of warning prevented him stepping on a thick black-and-purple snake coiled by one of the fireplaces.

 _"Watch where you're going, master,"_ it hissed, obviously quite put out. _"I've come with a message for you and would appreciate not being flattened in the process."_

It didn't sound nearly as respectful as most snakes Harry had encountered.

 _"I'll be careful,"_ Harry said, stepping around its coils and sitting in the nearest armchair. _"What's your message?"_

 _"Master-not-master wishes to speak with you if you awaken before seventh hour."_

Harry glanced at the clock beside the noticeboard, which showed it to be nearly six.

"Plenty of time, then," Harry said. _"Can you take me to him? I don't know my way around."_

The snake shifted irritably, but nodded. _"Yesss, I know the way. Follow."_

* * *

Professor Quirrell sat in his office, wearing deep purple robes and a pointed black hat with a thin purple band that actually went quite fetchingly with his light brown hair. He'd looked so completely different in each situation Harry had seen him, he was beginning to wonder what style he actually _preferred_ to wear.

"Harry, thank you for coming. I rather expected you might be an early riser."

"My aunt and uncle didn't leave me much choice in the matter," Harry said. He'd expected to feel bitter about it, but Privet Drive already felt like a different life entirely. Though everything was new and strange here, overwhelming despite Quirrell's attempts to prepare him, nothing here felt even remotely similar to his former life.

Hogwarts was freedom, a chance to start over. It already felt like home.

"It suits my purposes well," Quirrell said. "As we both have much to do during the day, mornings may be best for our meetings and lessons."

He motioned Harry to a large and comfortable-looking chair. Harry sat, though he was feeling _very_ restless now. He wanted to _do_ something, not sit still. Get outdoors and explore the grounds, perhaps. But it was very early morning. Harry wasn't sure what the school policy was on students wandering outdoors alone in the early morning, but suspected it would be something along the lines of 'get back inside, idiot'.

"So, Harry," Quirrell said. "What is your main goal for the future?"

"I'm going to learn magic," Harry said. "Isn't that the point?"

Quirrell leaned forward. "Indeed. But, apart from that. Do you have _no_ ambitions?"

"I've wanted to get away from my aunt and uncle and Dudley for so long, it's hard to believe I'm really free." Glorious, exhilarating, but even now he had a hard time not flinching when Gregory walked past - his heavy steps could have matched Dudley's stride for stride. It seemed his past would not be quite so easy to discard.

Harry pushed aside the thought. Wizards weren't like that. Here, he could excel without fear of reprisal. "I want to learn everything there is to know about my true power, I want to learn to control it safely."

"Ah. You want to prove yourself, don't you?" Quirrell asked quietly.

Harry nodded. "They always said I was worthless, a freak," he whispered, his hand tightening on his wand. "I don't want it to be true."

"Trust me," Quirrell said. "It isn't." The professor leaned back in his own chair, hands clasped on the desk in front of him. He glanced at a desk calendar planner, sighed. "I'm afraid I won't have time to meet you every day. You're not the only student I'll be tutoring individually."

Harry nodded, looked down at his lap. "That's alright. I don't want to bother you."

"That is a habit you need to break," Quirrell said firmly. "Look at me properly."

Harry looked up.

"You _may_ have the heart of a Slytherin, but right now you have the goals of a Ravenclaw and the attitude of a Hufflepuff," Quirrell said. " _I_ can see past your fear to the strength you've tried so long to hide, but I am older and wiser than your housemates. They will not be so understanding nor so perceptive. In our house, you do not sit by and wait for power to come to you. You must reach out and seize it by any means necessary. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, stared at his knees. "I understand."

"Look at me properly," Quirrell instructed. "You make yourself appear weak and foolish."

"Maybe I _am_ weak," Harry retorted, meeting his teacher's gaze only to look away at once. "Maybe I'm foolish. I'm only in Slytherin because I asked to be, maybe that was a mistake."

Quirrell shook his head. "Oh, don't think that, Harry. You've been here one night, that's not long enough to make such a sweeping judgment. Look at me."

Harry did so, feeling very small.

"I'm here to help you," Professor Quirrell insisted. "Our house is not one forgiving of weakness, but one designed to push each to their limits. Only through overcoming anything in our way do we attain our truest greatness."

"I don't _want_ to be pushed right now," Harry said, fighting the instinct to look away. He fidgeted uncomfortably. "Right now I want to recover from the nightmare that my life has been up to this point. I want to learn how to control my true power. And I don't want to have to worry about what people think about me."

It made Harry feel unwell just thinking about the sheer amount of attention he already had with his unearned reputation. He imagined the crowds as a vast hunting beast that would dog his steps until he stumbled, then devour him without hesitation.

"You should not _worry_ what they think, but you must be aware. You must be ready to direct their allegiance as you desire. You must be able to forge alliances, even if you can't stand the other person."

"I have you, and Draco offered to teach me what alliances were worth my time."

"Draco, the Malfoy heir?"

Harry nodded. "If there's another Draco, I haven't met him."

Quirrel tilted his chair back a bit as he considered, tapping his thumbs together. "That could be a very useful alliance, but you _must not_ show weakness."

Harry nodded. "I've been trying to follow all your advice. I haven't made any promises, and I've been vague and mysterious as much as possible."

"Being vague won't work with Malfoy if you plan to be allies. You need a firm hand dealing with that one."

Harry nodded. Draco was a pureblood wizard, which automatically inferred additional status and power even without taking his family's considerable political influence and wealth into account. Harry may be the wizard savior hero, but he was also an ignorant half-blood whose parents had made controversial alliances and then died, leaving him to grow up with _muggles_.

Harry could hardly be in a much worse position, aside from his reputation as _the-boy-who-lived_ \- which may end up being more a detriment than a help.

He slumped lower in his chair. He'd been here less than a day, and already his freedom from trouble was looking to be at its end.

"Sit up straight, look me in the eyes," Quirrell reminded.

Harry sighed, but obeyed.

"What do you want to know this morning?" the professor asked. "It's been a long time since we last were able to speak in person."

Harry nodded, tried to remember his list of questions. They just didn't seem important right then, when placed against the urgency of finding his place in Slytherin.

"How do I show strength, when I know so little? How can I prove to Draco that I'm worth his time, and that I know what I'm doing? What should I do about Pansy? I don't know anything."

Quirrell sighed. "I wish I could be of more assistance, but though I know much about the general families involved, I do not know the specifics of their children. I have been away for a some time, traveling the world. I can only teach you general techniques for dealing with others, I cannot tell you specifically who you can trust. Draco Malfoy would be a valuable ally, there can be no doubt, and you of value to him. If you see an opportunity, take it, if not. . . it may be better to wait another year, until you're more confident of your place. Exactly where the balance lies, I could not say. I've never even met the boy, though I know much of his father."

Harry understood completely, he felt just as lost in uncertainty. But unlike Quirrell who as a teacher could avoid Slytherin alliances completely, Harry had no choice. The longer he delayed, the harder it would become to break in. Right now, everyone was new. Though they had family members to tell them _about_ Hogwarts, the castle was still a new place with new relationships to be formed.

"How do I make friends?" he asked faintly. "I don't understand people at all. I've never actually had a friend my own age."

Quirrell chuckled darkly. "Ah, Harry. People are the most inexplicable creature of all. In this as well, I have but little experience. And to be perfectly honest, I haven't ever been particularly good at forming relationships with children. Adults are so much more reasonable. Allies, yes, I have had many allies. Friends. . . I couldn't say."

Harry watched as the professor absently twisted the ring around his finger, showing the heavy gold band, then the large green stone. He felt a strange pull toward that stone, a desire to see it closer, to touch it.

The professor didn't notice Harry's focus, staring past into the middle distance.

"I can only repeat the same bland useless advice I have been given. Be friendly. Take an interest in their lives. _Care_ about them." Quirrell laughed, mocking, his tone warning. "But remember that they are also Slytherins. If you care too much, you will be exploited. If you trust too far, you could be betrayed. What an impossible balance to try to walk."

Harry felt despair seeping into him. "What can I _do_ then?" he whispered.

Quirrell met Harry's eyes, his expression earnest. "Become great. Followers are quite as useful as friends, and cost much less to acquire and retain. Strength attracts admiration, and people find it much easier to follow those they admire."

Harry nodded slowly. It was the feeling he'd gotten from his classmates already. People wanted to follow him, wanted to 'be his friend' because he was famous. If he managed to not mess up, maintain his already mysterious image, and expand upon it with his own exploits. . .

"Can you teach me more magic?" Harry asked. "Everyone knows more than me."

Quirrell nodded, smiling. "I have prepared an advanced plan that should maximize your magical skill and expand your future potential, as I rather suspected you would desire magical knowledge. First, can you still perform the light charm I taught you?"

Harry stood and brought his wand up in front of him in a quick, smooth gesture. "Lumos."

The wand tip flared with light, flickered, faded, flickered again, then sputtered out. Harry frowned, brought it up again. " _Lumos_ ," he said, more insistently.

Again the light flared, brightly at first, then sputtering and winding down to a dim glow. Then it flashed brightly one last time before going dark again.

"LUMOS!" Harry shouted, angry now. The light flickered, brightened, stayed at a steady glow for nearly five seconds, then sputtered and died away again. "LUMOS, lumos, _Lumos_!"

Quirrell finally held up his hand. "It seems your wand is quite temperamental. Perhaps try mine again? It seemed to like you the first time."

Harry put away his own wand, accepted the professor's. Long and pale, engraved patterns coiling sinuously around its length, its handle worn to icy smoothness over its years of use. Harry felt instantly comfortable with it in his hand. "Lumos," he said firmly, and brought the wand up. Its tip lit and stayed alight, faint but steady.

"This _is_ longer," Harry said. The light went out as his concentration lapsed, but he hardly noticed, turning the wand over in his hand. "This isn't the same wand you had at the shop. Do you have _two_?"

Quirrell smiled. "Well noticed, Harry, very good. Yes, I have two wands. That one, I. . . inherited, you could say."

He pulled out the shorter wand, twirled it. "This was my own, but it doesn't seem to like me much any longer. It fails the most simple spells. Perhaps jealousy, perhaps we've just grown too different to work together as we once did. It matters not, that wand works perfectly well for me. And for you, it would seem."

"What type is this?" Harry asked, turning the wand over in his hands. The coldness tingled against his hand, but didn't chill his fingers, instead the cool power of the wand seemed almost to warm him. A paradox of magic.

"Yew, with a phoenix feather core," Quirrell replied. "I acquired it during my travels, actually. It is surprising it works so well for me, considering that I am not its original owner."

"Whose was it?"

Quirrell shrugged. "To be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe the man from whom I obtained it had any idea whose it had originally been. He claimed it belonged to 'a legendary wizard of nearly unstoppable power,' but to my knowledge such wands do not tend to drift around the world like so much easily purchased tourist bait. Still, I felt a connection to it even then, decided to give it a chance."

Harry nodded, looked at the wand hesitantly. "Will using this make my own wand jealous? If it has reservations about me as it is. . ."

Quirrell smiled. "I doubt that anything we do will make a difference. Your wand is being stubborn, as phoenix-core wands are wont to do. It will choose to accept you in time, I am confident of that. Until it does so, you may continue to use mine in our practice, though I must insist you attempt to use your own during regular classes."

"Thank you," Harry said, then added as an afterthought, "Lumos." The wand lit, glowed steadily. "What now?"

"I'll be officially teaching from the standard curriculum books this year, but most of them are not particularly useful apart from specific situations. We could start with basic attack and defence spells. They'll be very weak for you at first until your magical strength is better developed, but it will give you a head start on the future years."

"Attack and defence spells?" Harry asked uncertainly. When he'd pictured learning magic, it had been more demonstrative, mundane, or utilitarian. Light, fire, conjuring rain, transfiguring a chair to be more comfortable, charming a dishrag to wash things on its own. Most of his textbooks seemed to reinforce that impression.

"I teach Defence against the Dark Arts, Harry. Many creatures of darkness lurk in our world, and many more who are useless irritations. But as much as we must defend against werewolves and gargoyles and fire-crabs, the greatest harm to our world has come in the wars against Dark wizards, or in opposition to those who are misguided fools."

Harry's sense of safety and surety, his confidence that _wizards were better_ , cracked slightly.

"Like Lord Voldemort," he said faintly. "But there aren't any like him around any longer, right?" He desperately hoped it would be true.

Quirrell folded his hands, his expression grim. "I'm sorry, Harry, but there is no way to be sure. Dozens of Lord Voldemort's followers have been captured and imprisoned, but the obvious threat is not always the true one. The Ministry of Magic, sitting back and ignoring the world for the sake of their own power, could well be considered a greater threat to our lives and happiness than Lord Voldemort ever was."

Harry inhaled sharply. "The Ministry of Magic?" he asked. "But aren't they in charge of _everything_ wizards do?"

"The fact that they are in such unquestioned control is the start of the problem," Quirrell said, then added, "They are very near to incontestable. They monitor magical transportation, compose the rules of manufacturing and conduct all enforcement of magical law. If a wizard or witch gets on the wrong side of the Ministry, they can make your life all but unbearable."

Harry tightened his grip on Quirrell's wand, the magic's cold warmth seeping through him. "I want people to be _free_ ," he said, quiet but firm. He started to lower his eyes, caught himself and straightened instead. It took a great effort of will, years of instinct fought hard, but this was his chance to start over. He would no longer be anyone's servant. He would no longer sit quietly and mumble agreement.

Harry already associated magic with confidence. He had felt strongest after his first meeting with the professor in the park, only his deep instinct for survival had buried that spark of defiance as he'd reached his relatives' home. Now, he needed to be confident and strong to show his house he could stand with them.

Here he would not be powerless.

"Teach me to protect myself," Harry said, meeting his teacher's eyes with fierce determination. "Teach me to fight and win."

Quirrell smiled. "I would like nothing better."

* * *

 _Author's Note : This update almost didn't go out today, I realized at the last minute that the first section was very broken when I went to submit it, but once I actually got started on it the corrections were fairly straightforward. However, I'm still having trouble with this arc's overall flow, which may end up causing delays in the future._

 _Happy Pi day!_


	15. Casting Light

Professor Quirrell rose from his seat, drew his smaller wand, and settled into a ready stance. One foot extended a little, the other back and to the side, his balance centered low for quick movement.

"There are three essential parts to a magical duel," he said. "The first is the physical ability to move when and how the situation requires. Accuracy, speed, flexibility, reflexes. Without being able to aim precisely, without being able to intercept enemy spells, you are doomed before you begin. Second is your repertoire of spells, of course, and third is sheer magical energy. You will not be able to cast many spells quickly or powerfully yet, you are very young."

Quirrell brought his wand up and aimed at Harry, said "Lumonitio," and a quick flash of white light shot out from the wand tip and struck Harry right in the chest.

Harry blinked instinctively as the bright projectile sped toward him, then glanced down to where it had hit. He didn't feel anything, but there was a roughly hand-sized circle of illumination on the front his robes.

"It is a variation on Lumos, requiring very little power," Quirrell explained as the light began fading. He walked over to stand beside Harry. "The wand motion is simple as well, an inverted V which can be cast very quickly and in any position. Pronounced LU-mo-NEE-she-oh."

Harry repeated the incantation, with Quirrell correcting his timing or pronunciation each time, until he could say it to the professor's satisfaction. Then he practiced the wand movement, a quick and simple motion, but one whose angle did alter the flight of the spell. When the professor was satisfied with his progress on that as well, he allowed Harry to actually attempt casting it.

"Lumonitio," Harry said, swiping Quirrell's wand up and down in the quick movement. Nothing happened, but he could feel that it hadn't happened because he'd been uncommitted. He concentrated on the icy warmth of the wand, the quiet almost imperceptible tingling of magic that suffused him.

"Lumonitio. Lumonitio."

The third time a thin light flew from the wand's tip, spreading a circle of illumination on the wall. Lower down than Harry had expected; the spell's wand movement had changed his aim more than he anticipated.

"This is the first lesson," Quirrell said, gesturing to the spot of glowing wall. "You must learn how to _start_ your wand movements instinctively so they will _finish_ where you wish to aim, not aim where you wish and then start the movement. Some spells can be done without a particular motion, just as some spells can be done without the incantation, and some without either. However, the use of either incantation or proper wand movements help to strengthen and focus the magic to the proper and desired form, and using both is always the ideal."

Harry nodded, tried again. This time his aim was off by an even greater amount, sending the light somewhat to the right and above the space he was aiming for.

"Notice that the second spot of light is a little smaller," Quirrell said. "This is because you are still maintaining the first light. It is connected to you, charged with your energy. And since your magic is still weak and unpracticed, that will lessen the strength of any additional spells you cast. The spell to end your magic is Finite." He repeated it slower, with strong emphasis. "Fi-NEE-tay. It requires no special wand movements, simply indicate the spell you wish ended."

Harry pointed the yew wand at the larger spot. "Finite. Finite." The glow faded away after the second try. He canceled the second luminitio as well, then tried the cast light spell again.

"You can attain a similar effect by pushing less energy into the spell initially, or make a wider area with greater effort. While this spell isn't generally considered useful I find it a handy thing to have on hand, especially for checking your magic levels easily. Once you're more familiar with your magic you'll be able to tell by the size of your lumonitio exactly how strong your magic is and how many more spells you can cast without fear of over-exertion."

Harry practiced for several minutes, Quirrell offering occasional comment, until the professor's small desk clock began emitting a quiet buzz. Harry glanced at it. It had ten hands, each shaped differently. Three rested at the white section at the bottom of the strange clock face, labeled 'plenty of time.' Most other hands were sitting at various spots in the 'should be preparing' wedge, while one vibrated with increasing volume while pointing to the top section marked 'right now.' The black section, with no hands pointing to it, said 'LATE' in large silver letters.

Quirrell held out his hand, and Harry reluctantly returned the borrowed wand.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said. Though his aim hadn't much improved, he was able to do _two_ spells now, and knew how to cancel them. And this was just the beginning. Exhilaration brought a smile he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.

"I'll send someone to arrange our future meetings," Quirrell said. He tucked the yew wand deep in his robes, then crossed to a cabinet and began collecting scrolls and books and stacking them in midair. "I'm sure your schedule will leave plenty of time, but mine is, alas, more full."

Harry nodded. "I understand. Thank you again."

He turned and left the office, only realizing after he was three halls away that the snake had not hung around to lead him back, and he couldn't really remember where he was supposed to go.

 _"Anyone know how to get back to the dungeons?"_ he asked in a loud hiss, hoping against hope that there would be some other snakes around.

He continued down the corridor, opened a few doors in hopes of finding a stairway down, but only found classrooms too big to fit next to each other whose windows all inexplicably showed the grounds outside.

Harry wondered if he should go back and ask Professor Quirrell for help, but when he turned around the stairs no longer connected this hallway to the fourth floor where the Defence classroom and its accompanying office were located. Instead, a thin ladder led down to the balcony below. Though why the third floor would have a ladder down to a second floor balcony which only overlooked the _stairways_ Harry couldn't begin to guess.

Still, he was trying to reach the dungeons, so he climbed carefully down the ladder and onto the balcony, only to find that it only connected to a classroom full of small animals in cages, whose other door was firmly locked.

"Do any of you know how to reach the dungeons?" he asked. None of the animals replied, so he tried again in parseltongue. There were only two small snakes among the animals, but they didn't acknowledge him. Looking closer, he realized they must be constructs. While they looked different than the ones Professor Quirrell had created, they were completely identical to each other, lay in their individual cages in the same position, and equally ignored his attempts to speak.

He wondered if _all_ the creatures in this room were artificial magical constructs, decided he didn't want to think about it, and returned to the balcony.

Looking down at the criss-crossing stairs below, Harry thought they seemed to go down a _lot_ farther than any second story had a right to. None were close enough to jump to, so he climbed back up to the third floor on the hanging ladder. Which made even less sense the more he thought about it.

"Lumonitio," he whispered, aiming for the hallway across the open area. "Lumonitio. Lumonitio." He failed the spell almost as often as he succeeded, his wand still refusing to behave itself, but finally managed three glowing spots of light on the distant wall. That hall connected to the stairs leading downward at the moment, so all he had to do was keep looking around the corners of every hall on this level. He would place a single spot of light at each intersection he had already checked, so even if the hallways decided to go wrong directions, he'd eventually find the one with three spots.

But he had to move fast. He knew that his light-spot would only last at most about eight minutes.

He set off running through the corridors, pausing long enough to tag each corner with _Lumonitio_ as he passed. He got turned around twice, ended at a blank wall once, but reached the top of the stair as the second glowing patch was fading. He sighed with relief, rushed down the stairway before it got into its mind to move again.

To his relief, the second floor stairs were in the same position as he'd left them, and from there he found his way back to the dungeons with relative ease. He got slightly lost three times, but ran across a pair of small green snakes hiding in a dead-end corridor who were able to direct him back toward the dungeons.

"Hydra," he said to the blank wall, out of breath and relieved that he'd found his way back. He wanted to just flop down in one of those big, comfortable chairs. He had a new spell, a very _useful_ new spell as it turned out. Harry grinned at the thought that he had actually made it all the way back to his common room on his own.

His smile faded as he saw a dozen faces turn toward him. The common room was no longer empty. He had been away long enough that most of the house was awake. Conversations fell silent for just a moment, as everyone assessed him.

Harry stood straight, though all the attention made him want to run and hide, forced himself to stay still as he surveyed the common room. He didn't recognize any of the students present. Most were considerably older and larger.

"Harry, there you are!" Pansy stood and waved to him from a group of older female students.

He hurried over, barely remembering to move with an attempt at dignified speed. As if he knew what speed was dignified or not. He could feel himself being watched, weighed. Surely everyone knew he was just pretending to know what he was doing. They were Slytherin, of course they saw through his attempts at seeming strong and confident.

But then he saw Pansy's smile, and the watchers no longer mattered. She slid over slightly, making room for him to sit on the arm of her seat.

"Everyone, this is Harry." She seemed almost to glow when she said it. Harry couldn't hide the warmth in his cheeks. He didn't deserve so much attention. But Pansy just carried on.

"Harry, these are Rachel and Imogen, they're a year above us, and Sylvia. She's third year, same as Sadie."

Harry nodded and shook their hands, murmured polite acknowledgment. Their smiling faces made him wonder, just for a minute, if he could actually be the person they imagined him as.

Harry tried to pay attention to the conversation, but since he'd joined in the middle it didn't make much sense to him. They didn't actually seem to care whether he was involved or not. So he remained silent and watched, feeling very out-of-place the entire time.

Sylvia seemed uncertain about the whole conversation, eagerly latching onto certain topics - seemingly at random - but never taking the initiative.

Rachel fiddled with her green hairband throughout the conversation, but it seemed like a casual habit more than nervousness. She certainly didn't look ill-at-ease, laughing and interjecting with relaxed surety.

Imogen (Gen, as Rachel called her) talked the most, leading the discussion through one topic after another. Most were opaque to Harry; either girl-related or magic-related things that he had insufficient context for.

Pansy didn't speak nearly as much, but she did so with firm clarity. Harry watched her most, trying to memorize her confidence.

Then someone tapped Harry's shoulder and he startled so hard he nearly toppled off his seat. He turned, saw a dark-haired wolfish boy watching him with a smile.

"Harry Potter," the boy said. He proffered his hand. "I'm Cole. Spencer. I suggest we arrange a time to meet privately. I have a lot to discuss with you."

"Thanks," Harry said, twisting to politely clasp hands, but not entirely comfortable with either the boy's smile or his closeness. Having people stand behind him while he was sitting made him distinctly uneasy. "I'll be sure to keep your offer in mind," he said neutrally.

"We both have free period tuesday mornings." Cole leaned even closer and lowered his voice, "I know a lot about starting from the bottom. I'm half-blood too, and a reputation only goes as far as you know to use it. Find me when you're ready."

Harry shrugged noncommittally and turned back to the girls, who, he suddenly realized, had fallen silent to stare at him. Or, more accurately, at _Cole_.

Pansy was giving the older boy a glower that Harry was very glad to not have directed his way. Cole had turned away, though, and apparently not noticed.

"Who does he think he is?" Pansy hissed. "Disgraceful! Trying to curry favour with you already, and without much plan if you ask me. What was that even supposed to be? Mysterious with a side of _creepy_?"

Rachel snorted with laughter. "More like he thinks he's in a play, arranging some perilous rendezvous."

"I don't need him," Harry said defiantly.

Pansy nodded firmly. "Right you are. Cole 'technically halfblood' Spencer can keep his mysterious rendezvous." She smiled, pulled out her quill and parchment from her bag. "But, useless or no. . ."

She scribbled a quick notation, listing his name along with what looked like every other student who'd approached Harry at the feast the previous night.

The conversation continued, slipping through various topics. A few interested Harry, but he didn't try to interrupt. He had nothing of value to add to the conversation, after all. Growing up at the Dursleys meant his entire context of existence was irrelevant.

This day, this castle, this was where Harry Potter, Wizard, began. So for now, he listened.


	16. Lingering Shadows

_Author's Note: April 3, 2018: I've added around 500 words to the previous chapter (the new section begins 'Harry tried to pay attention' if you want to go back and read it now.) It's a continuation of the scene where it left off originally, a brief introduction of some other characters I'll be using throughout the series, but I ran out of time to do so last week and didn't want to delay the update. Originally I was going to stick it at the beginning of this chapter, but that felt out-of-place and tonally off.  
_

* * *

Harry followed Pansy and her friends to the dining hall, paying close attention to the layout as they passed through the halls. He had no intention of ever losing his way to a meal, if he had anything to do about it. He could already smell the food, the delicious scent wafting through the halls. Faintly, as though from a distance, but enticing nonetheless. He couldn't wait. If the night before had been any indication, it was going to be a good meal.

He wasn't particularly hungry, having spent enough years without reliable breakfast that he barely noticed missing a single meal, but the smell did make his stomach rumble eagerly. He wasn't disappointed, the spread wasn't nearly as lavish as the welcome feast the previous day, but it was perfectly sufficient. Luxurious, even compared to the Dursleys' fare. He had never tasted many of the dishes on offer, common though he assumed them to be for wizards.

He was so busy savoring his breakfast - trying very hard not to rush through it; without Dudley here to snatch it away, he didn't need to - he almost didn't notice as the rest of the first years rose in a ripple across the table. Professor Snape swept toward them, his dark cloak rippling behind him.

"Orientation," one of the prefects - Michael? - whispered, nodding for Harry to stand. Harry hurried after their head-of-house, the rest of the first years scrambling to catch up. Professor Snape didn't slow his stride or glance back to see if they were following; if it hadn't been for the prefect's warning, Harry would never have known what was expected of him.

Professor Snape paused at various points throughout the castle, explaining in a brisk measured voice about this corridor or that staircase, carefully detailing the procedure to access certain halls or on which days certain passages could be used. Harry scrambled to take notes, but he had to all but run just to keep up with Professor Snape, and he doubted the few scribbles he managed would be decipherable later.

He hoped Pansy had better luck. He was sure he couldn't remember all this at once. The fourth floor was the one with the blue section? Or was that the sixth?

They passed a dimly-lit corridor on the third floor, ending in a single thick wooden door from behind which came deep snorting sounds and a faint rustling and clinking.

"Dragon," several students whispered, glancing down that forbidden hall with a combination of longing and fearful awe.

Harry was curious, but certainly not enough to dare even approaching the door. It was clearly forbidden for a reason. Even at this distance, the rumbling breathing made its bulk clear. And besides, however sturdy, a wooden door didn't seem sufficient to hold a creature of such size and, presumably, strength.

Professor Snape completely ignored the murmurs, swooping on past the forbidden corridor without pausing. Harry felt completely lost, even as they walked past Professor Quirrell's office. Even the portraits and statues in the halls seemed changed from even the few hours earlier when he had traversed these halls last.

"The eighth step down on this stairway is semi-intangible and will cause your foot to stick if you don't avoid it." He glowered at the students as though forgetting would be a deadly offence, then began to descend. He stepped smoothly past the eighth step without hesitation or breaking stride. The first years scurried to follow, but the narrower stairway made it difficult. They could only go one or two at a time.

A dark-haired girl tripped, trying to jump over the _seventh_ step down, and landed off-balance right squarely in the trick step. Harry dodged out of the way hastily, but it proved unnecessary. Her momentum was halted abruptly as she came to a stumbling stop, her left foot seemingly immobilized within the illusionary stair.

Pansy laughed, pointing and doubling over. "Nice one, Davis."

"Solvite exmovio solwe laxio," Professor Snape snapped, twisting his wand in a complex pattern that lasted nearly half a minute. "Solvite exmovio solwe laxio."

The girl stumbled free of the step as though pushed from behind, but by then the area around her was clear of students and she didn't knock anyone over as she clumsily regained her balance.

Professor Snape didn't wait, continuing down the narrow staircase the moment Davis was free. Harry couldn't remember even part of the spell he'd used, and wondered if most magic was so complicated. So far, Lumos and Lumonitio were the only spells he had experience with. Well, also Professor Quirrell had cast Serpensortia, the Snake-Construct spell, so that did indicate a slight trend toward shorter incantations.

He certainly hoped he wouldn't have to learn anything nearly so long any time soon. He wanted to get used to being a wizard in training without anything too strenuous for the start.

Finally, after Harry began to think he couldn't get any more confused, they returned to the entrance hall. From there, they went outside to see where the Quidditch pitch stood amid raised bleachers, the wide lawns and the greenhouses, the lightly forested grounds, the lake. And shown the hut that marked the near boundary to the darker, forbidden forest where students were not allowed to go.

For all his confusion, Harry had to admit that he _loved_ the castle even more now that he'd seen the outside in daylight. And though at first the interior felt endless, he could see that with a few months of practice it should be easy enough to navigate.

The tour ended with Professor Snape depositing them in the Charms corridor minutes before the first class was to begin. With a curt instruction to enter the room marked C-101, he swept off in his dark flowing robes, leaving them to themselves.

Though he wasn't what Harry would ever consider friendly, he was a slightly more familiar figure than their Charms teacher would be. He tried not to feel abandoned, but Professor Snape was his head of house, an important man who was responsible for them all.

Draco Malfoy pushed open the door and strode in as though he owned the place, his two friends flanking him and another boy close behind. Harry waited, making it clear that he wasn't _following_ Draco in, and entered with Pansy at his side.

* * *

"We will be studying from 'Magical Theory' this year," announced Professor Flitwick, the Charms master. "Please open your book to the preface."

There was a flurry of pages turning as the students complied.

"Before we begin, can anyone tell me the most important component for Charms?"

A few hands went up. Harry had read a good bit about charms, but was far from confident enough to invite a teacher to call on him. He rummaged in his bag for the textbook, flipped it open to the first chapter.

"Yes, Miss Greengrass?" Professor Flitwick called out.

"Creativity!"

"That's not entirely correct, but a good try. Creativity is one of the greatest _strengths_ of Charms, but not their essential component. Mr. Morris?"

Shawn Morris, the other boy who shared Harry's room (along with Draco, Vincent, and Gregory) answered, "Precision."

"Very good. Point for Slytherin to you. In Charms there is indeed the most space for creativity, but the least tolerance for imprecision. You will often spend weeks practicing a wand movement before it can be usefully applied, precision is of the utmost importance. For a bonus point, can anyone tell me the one change in wand movement that does _not_ harm the spell's effectiveness?"

There was a pause, then a dark-skinned boy raised his hand. Harry remembered seeing him at the Sorting, but not his name.

"Mr. Zabini?"

"Scale."

"Yes, wonderful! Point for Slytherin." Professor Flitwick seemed nearly giddy with excitement. He bobbed his head eagerly as he expounded, "A wand motion can be done tight and well controlled in a small space, or wide and sweeping. So long as the proportions and angles of the movement are correct, the scale of your wandwork does not matter."

Harry took a few inches of brief notes during the lecture portion of the class, pleased to find that he understood just about everything the professor taught. But when they started practicing actual wandwork it became abundantly clear that he was no Charms prodigy. While Quirrell's two quick lessons on light spells had gone smoothly and easily, Harry quickly realized that he'd been correct in waiting for a teacher before trying to learn spells on his own.

He wasn't the only student struggling. A girl with long black hair had an unfortunately strong accent and simply could not prevent her charms from misfiring - the few times they did anything at all. In contrast, Draco Malfoy completely lost his arrogant drawl when spellcasting, his syllables clear and precise. Harry had the distinct feeling that the Malfoy heir had been practicing long before coming to Hogwarts, regardless of what magical law might say.

Pansy moved her wand smoothly, but her spells were no more successful than Harry's own. He took several inches more of notes during the practicals, mostly of things to ask Professor Quirrell about next time they met for practice.

* * *

"Transfiguration differs from most spells as it has a direct impact on the _nature_ of the item, object, or creature that you're transforming," Professor McGonagall proclaimed at the start of class. "There are three very important things to keep in mind. First, transfiguration is in general _irreversible_. You can turn a cup to a frog, and it will hop away. You can turn a frog to a cup, and it will _be_ a cup. You turn that cup into a frog, and you have, this is very important, a _different frog_. Advanced transfiguration builds in a pattern from the original, like so."

She tapped a goblet, turning it into a raven, then cast _finite_ and it reverted to its original goblet form. "Reversibility is an extra layer of magical information which requires additional skill and concentration. Most transfigurations, particularly at the beginning levels, _cannot_ _be dispelled_. Therefore, anyone fooling around in my class will leave and not return. If I so much as hear about you casting transfigurations on other _people_ for any reason whatsoever, you will leave this class and not return."

The foreign girl raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss Sibazaki?"

"Human transfiguration isn't permanent, though," she said, though she looked horrified at disagreeing with Professor McGonagall.

"That is true. Because magic is different when interacting with something with a _soul_. Your soul knows the shape you should be, down to the birthmarks and scars, and your magic does its very best to keep you that way. This is also part of the reason witches and wizards can survive mundane injury far better than our muggle counterparts. Transfigurations cast on others often _can_ be dispelled, but not always easily and not always without severe repercussions. We will cover this all in your fourth year and onward, for now stick to teacups and rabbits."

She cleared her throat before continuing, "That permanence is the reason that this class, unlike others, will not have you practicing on your own familiars until you have proven your capacity for reversible transfiguration. And if I hear that any of you has been practicing on another student's familiar, you will leave this class and not return."

Professor McGonagall stared around the classroom sternly, making sure her message was understood before continuing.

"Second, transfiguration has a stronger mental and imaginative component than any other branch of magic. Unlike charms, where the spell has practically identical effects no matter who casts it, when transfiguring an object its specific appearance is almost entirely based on your own mind's picture of it. A spell to transfigure a matchbox into a mouse will always, when properly cast, form a mouse, but its colour, size, species, and other details are generally specific to a caster. Therefore, it is often possible to discern, merely from the outcome of a transfiguration, the witch or wizard who created it."

She gave a particular look at a brown-haired wizard who'd been twiddling his wand without seeming to pay attention. He swallowed as he noticed McGonagall's attention, nodded hastily and folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Third, transfiguration is gradual. Unlike most spells, which build up and release their power in a single burst, transfigurations take time to perform correctly. If your concentration wavers at any point, or if you exhaust your magical strength - though this is infrequent unless pushing one's limits deliberately - the spell will fail. This can lead to unpleasant results, and it is considerably more difficult to resume a botched transfiguration than to begin a new one."

She flipped open a thick book on her podium. "Turn to page 167 of your transfiguration almanac. We'll be studying the magical makeup of turtles."

Harry had already looked through 'Transfiguration Almanac, Volume One: For Beginning Students' just enough to know that it was _way_ too complicated to understand without a teacher.

The other textbook for the year, 'A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration,' was written much more simply. Its first exercise was turning matches to needles, which sounded much easier than the magical makeup of turtles. Still, he dug out the thick book and found the page.

Professor McGonagall spent nearly the entire class explaining and expounding upon the two pages dealing with turtles. A lot of the terminology was unfamiliar, the tables and lists opaque at first glance, but Professor McGonagall explained it all clearly and concisely.

By the end of the class, Harry was beginning to feel more confident. It was a different type of learning than muggle school had been, much of what he'd been taught there seemed utterly useless. Who cared about things like multiplication tables and water cycles and spelling when there was the magical composition of existence to be learned instead?

They were assigned eight inches of 'personal observation' on turtles, though Professor McGonagall promised that next class they would be actually practicing spellcasting. She made it clear that they would need these observations later in the year, but turtles would not be easily located by then due to snow, so this was an _important assignment_ with _far-reaching consequences_ which they ought not to slack on.

Had he not been conditioned from a young age to avoid attracting attention to himself, Harry would have asked Professor McGonagall a dozen questions. His curiosity was muted further by the desire not to show his ignorance to his classmates. But, to his surprise, as the bell rang to end the class she called out, "Mr. Potter, would you stay a moment?"

"I'll see you in History," Pansy said. She waved to him, then departed with the others.

Harry waited nervously, standing beside his desk. Once the other students were gone, Professor McGonagall stepped down from her podium and walked closer. Then she stopped, looking down at him as though unsure of something.

"What do you need, Professor?" Harry asked.

"I confess, I never imagined that you wouldn't be in my house," she said softly. Perhaps even sadly? "James and Lily were both in Gryffindor, and I simply assumed. . ."

Harry shifted minutely, unsure how to respond. What did she want?

"How was it, growing up with muggles?" she asked, her voice deceptively casual.

Harry felt suddenly sure that this question was far more than a simple inquiry. Not mere curiosity; something more lay behind this whole encounter.

He shrugged. "I survived. I much prefer Hogwarts." He caught his voice shaking slightly.

 _No_. He didn't have to be afraid here, _wizards are better!_

Anger was better than fear, even anger directed at himself. He reached into his pocket, gripped his wand. It steadied him, the tangible reminder of his power, his _difference_ , the distance from his past.

"I hope they didn't give you much trouble over being a wizard?" Professor McGonagall pressed.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable at the directness of her question. "They don't like magic very much," he admitted.

Remembering just how much effort had been required to escape even for a few hours to someplace safe and welcoming, remembering the weeks spent trying desperately to escape just so he could talk to Professor Quirrell or send a letter, or talk to Mrs. Figg-

Harry's hand clenched so tightly on his wand he was almost surprised it didn't snap. He felt tears in his throat, felt the remembered helplessness and despair trying to choke him, to burn through him. He stared at the floor, couldn't have made himself meet her eyes even had he remembered. He was trembling, but whether with suppressed sobbing or rage he couldn't have said.

It was unacceptable. He was going to change, he was _not_ going to let the Dursleys control him. Not here. Not now. He was better, stronger, powerful, important. He. . . _could be_.

Would he? Was it pointless after all? Could he change himself by pretense, rewrite his future with false confidence?

He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, jumped backward, his wand coming up without even a moment's thought between himself and. . . Professor McGonagall didn't move to pursue him. Her lips were set in a tight, unreadable expression.

"I'm sorry Mr. Potter," she said gently. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm fine," Harry growled, feeding his remembered weakness into anger, pushing it away from himself.

 _'Teach me to fight and win,'_ he strove to remember the defiance he'd felt in that moment, the reckless rejection of the past. "Was there anything else you needed?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "You may go."

Harry stormed out, his ire only growing as he replayed the conversation in his mind. He'd given too much away, hadn't responded with strength. His emotions had failed him yet again, and even wrapped in anger he could feel the tears that wanted to burst out of him.

 _Weakness will not be tolerated. Slytherin is the house of the undeterred, not the pathetic._

"Lumonitio!" Harry snarled, pushing as much of his energy through the spell as he could. The light flared out in a burst, sped down the hallway to splash onto a portrait at the far end. The painted woman threw her hand across her eyes, shaking a fist angrily in Harry's direction, but he fired again and again.

The spell failed and succeeded unpredictably, as usual, which only increased his frustration. Why wasn't his wand working for him? Why was he so pathetic? Why did everyone else know their purpose and place, while only he was left out? He didn't fit in anywhere. He wasn't brave, wasn't strong, wasn't friendly, wasn't kind. Was he cunning? He used to think himself quite clever indeed, but now even that seemed distant and pathetic.

His anger wasn't shield enough. Frustrated tears were escaping down his face. Harry ran aimlessly, just _away_. He ducked into a bathroom, checked that he was alone, then without conscious decision he was sobbing uncontrollably. All the pent-up years of his unbearable life, all the worry about not fitting into his new home, everything he'd ever pushed aside and tried not to think about came flooding into his mind, completely overwhelming him.

He had to stop. There were twenty minutes left for him to locate the History of Magic lecture hall, and he couldn't afford to come in looking like he'd been crying. Not in a shared class, of all things. Gryffindor would take any chance to pt down Slytherin, Ravenclaw would add his uselessness to their calculations.

No. Harry was _different_ now. He was a wizard. Even if one day wasn't enough to erase the past nearly as completely as he'd hoped, he couldn't give up. Not after so little.

He also made up his mind to avoid Professor McGonagall outside required classes from then on. She seemed far too interested in his past, and that was something he'd much rather leave buried.

It wasn't easy, but he got his emotions under control. Buried his fear, his anguish, his memories of helplessness, and stood with as much confidence as he could muster. He washed his face, stared firmly at his reflection until even he couldn't see any trace of his weakness and despair.

He wasn't quite on time for History of Magic, but he strode in with confidence.


	17. Missteps

History of Magic took place in the massive tiered semi-circular lecture hall, and was the only class which included all four houses.

Harry didn't have high hopes. Quirrell's letters had made it quite plain that Professor Binns was barely competent and quite behind the times, but his contract hadn't made any provisions for the unanticipated eventuality of his continuing to teach as a ghost. Which meant that as long as he showed up on time and actually taught the subject, it would be a very long time before Hogwarts was rid of him.

There were now clauses for newer teachers that forbad their ghosts from continuing to teach without a contract renegotiation, but legally there was nothing to be done until Binns's lessons grew so outdated that they could remove him for failing to teach the subject to modern standards. And that would be another thirty years at least.

Professor Quirrell had suggested that Harry simply treat the session as a study hall and bring his own history texts to read while ignoring the teacher. Harry didn't quite have it in him to be so blatantly disrespectful in class without at least giving Binns a chance.

But he'd brought his history books and supplemental reading, just in case.

Professor Binns seemed hardly to even notice that Harry was late, he simply continued droning on without once looking up from his podium.

Professor Quirrell, it turned out, had been right in every particular. Binns had a calm, somewhat scratchy voice that nonetheless seemed pitched at exactly the right tone for inducing drowsiness within minutes. The lecture hall was kept cool and well-lit, but that did little to counteract the professor's dull monotonous droning.

Harry struggled to pay attention for nearly a quarter hour before giving up and tuning out the ghost teacher's voice to focus on his own books. Even that proved difficult, however; by relegating the sound to the background, it became a soothing murmur that made Harry tired and lethargic. He wondered if Binns would notice if Harry jumped up from his chair and started running laps around the room to wake himself up, but decided it was better not to risk it.

* * *

As soon as History of Magic ended, Harry and Pansy returned to the common room only long enough to drop off their books. At Harry's suggestion, they ran off to explore the castle together. After the dreadfully dull and boring class, he had a keen desire to be _moving_.

Harry found his eagerness echoed by Pansy as they poked around behind tapestries, practiced moving from each major stairway to each other stairway on multiple levels, and tried to keep track of which secret passages led which places.

One passageway led upwards from the second floor to the fourth, or downwards from the fourth floor to the _sixth_. When trying to enter from the sixth floor, the door simply wasn't there; only an empty wall through which students emerged but could not re-enter. Harry didn't know how any of the castle's shifting layout was possible, and just chalked it up to 'magic'.

They ran into Peeves twice, and Harry found he liked the poltergeist less with each encounter. The first time he had floated at a run down the corridor, blowing raspberries excessively loudly and upending inkpots ahead of them.

The second time, Peeves giggled maniacally and started shrieking loudly about firsties wandering alone.

A squinty-eyed cat peered down the hall at them, glared at the students for a brief moment, then whisked herself away. Peeves continued cackling as the caretaker, Mr. Filch, came puffing around the corner.

"What's this, students wandering the corridors alone? Shouldn't you be with your house? I'd just love to hear what your head of house has to say about _this_."

"We just got here yesterday," Harry protested. "We wanted to know our way around, that's all."

"A likely story. Trying to get into the forbidden corridor while the teachers are at dinner, eh? Just like everyone else. I tell you, the dragon is _off limits_ and you're fools to try."

"Just so you know," Pansy said, putting every ounce of her ancient-bloodline arrogance into her tone, "the forbidden corridor is _down_ a level and three corridors in _that_ direction. I understand if a worthless _squib_ wouldn't be able to find it, but from here you can _sense_ the strength of its presence."

Filch's face twisted into a scowl so furious that Harry wanted to turn and run. But he wouldn't abandon his friend, so he stepped forward to Pansy's side.

"We really just wanted to find our way around, sir," he said, trying to placate the man.

But Filch was having none of it. He marched them straight down to Professor Snape's office, muttering the whole way about the terrible punishments that he would _love_ to see revived for just such occasions as this.

Harry didn't remember any rules about attending dinner the moment it was open. There was nothing wrong with exploring instead of hurrying to eat. Surely not.

Professor Snape was clearly not pleased to have two first-years shoved into his office, interrupting him as he carefully added drops of a blueish-green liquid to a cauldron. He flicked his wand at the potion, then whirled on the intruders with a glower that made Filch's look downright amateurish.

His gaze fell on Harry instantly, and his expression grew harder still. Harry could almost feel the hatred radiating off their head of house, and felt instinctively that he ought not do anything to upset him further.

"Potter," Professor Snape said coldly. "Why am I not surprised that you've gotten yourself into trouble within the first _day_ of your arrival?"

"We were only trying to become more familiar with the castle, sir," Harry said. "Nothing nefarious, I promise."

Professor Professor Snape narrowed his eyes, watching Harry with a look of clear distrust. "Nothing nefarious," he repeated slowly, then snapped his attention to Flich. "Where did you find them?"

"Fourth floor, lurking about near the prefects' bathroom." Filch turned a nasty leer on the two students. "What were you trying to find in there, eh? Privacy?"

"I will not be addressed so _crudely_ by a mere _squib_ ," Pansy said, fully maintaining her air of superiority. "Apologize at once."

Filch's hands balled into fists, and if Professor Snape hadn't been standing right there Harry wasn't sure he would have hesitated to strike Pansy for her insolence.

Harry glared at the man, his own hand tight around the wand in his pocket. If Filch tried anything. . .

Professor Snape tapped his wand once on his worktable with a quiet _tick_ that nonetheless drew instant attention. "Thank you, Mr. Filch. You may leave them to me."

Filch glared at them in clear indication that he would be watching for them particularly, then departed the office with his cat slinking along importantly at his feet.

Professor Snape tapped his wand once again, bringing their attention to him. "Subtlety, I see, is something that is lost on you both. I suggest that if you are uninterested in _dinner_ that you go to the library and direct your attention to 'The Everyday Wizard's Guide to Not Being an Idiot,' which I understand contains a good overview of how to avoid tactless errors such as you have demonstrated so readily here. Pausing to consider your actions even a _moment_ before continuing is a valuable tactic."

"Why is _he_ allowed to stay _here_?" Pansy demanded. "House-elves can take care of the castle without needing someone so worthless to hang around."

"Aside from the fact that the caretaker's appointment is one made by the Headmaster and not one that you or I have any say in, he amuses me. Your antics, on the other hand, do not. Though you have not precisely broken any rules just yet, you have certainly made a negative first impression. I suppose it is too much to expect for you to _remain_ where you are _supposed_ to be?"

"No one said we couldn't explore," Harry pointed out reasonably. "It's not curfew yet, and dinner will be going on for ages."

Professor Snape looked at him sourly. "Our rather thorough orientation tour was intended to familiarize you with the castle."

"It's very easy to get lost, sir," Harry said quietly. He didn't want to say aloud that the tour had been rushed, poorly handled, and of little actual help. "I thought it would be a good idea to learn my way around rather than being lost and late to every class. I'm sorry."

Professor Snape watched them a moment longer, then inclined his head toward the door. "Watch where you step, not everyone will be as forgiving of errors in judgment." He turned his gaze sharply on Pansy. "And I expect you to behave more respectfully. Whatever you may think of Mr. Filch personally, you must respect his _position_ as Hogwarts faculty."

Harry and Pansy left the office, any good mood stifled. Harry was glad to have avoided punishment, but annoyed that they'd been hauled in to their head's office for something so trivial and not had the charge instantly dismissed as ridiculous. They'd broken no rules.

Pansy was still fuming, incensed that Filch could get away with treating them so badly, that he was still allowed to work there, and wondering aloud just how dismal the _other_ European magical schools could possibly be if _this_ was supposed to be the _best_.

"Should we actually go to the library, do you think that's a real book?" Harry asked.

"Oh, I'm sure it is," Pansy fumed. "Severus has a reputation for _cleverness_ and I'm sure he was making some absolutely scathing _point_ by directing us to find it. _I_ say we skip the reprimand as we _clearly_ don't deserve it, and go back outdoors. I would dearly like to hex something."

Harry didn't like the idea of defying their head of house on the first day, and since he knew relatively little about the wizard world he thought it might actually be a good idea to read a book about not being an idiot.

But Pansy's pride had been affronted, and he was still too uncertain in their relationship to risk arguing with her too far. He could always find the book on his own later if he had the time. And it was doubtful Snape would actually bother to check if they had read it. Surely he didn't keep such close track of every minor conversation with students.

* * *

They walked out toward the lake this time, found a small stand of trees closer together and more wild than the well-kept ones scattered through the castle's sprawling yards. Pansy cast a spell Harry was not familiar with rapidly and forcefully, pink-red light splashing off the targeted trunks or scattered across the yard behind.

She didn't speak except to cast, the same spell over and over. Harry wondered if it was the only one she knew.

Harry tried to practice as well, but even with a simple spell like _lumonitio_ his wand continuing to flicker between marginal success and outright failure, and his heart wasn't really in it. It made his moderate success earlier seem impressive in comparison.

Harry watched a turtle waddle slowly by, but wasn't in the mood to start recording his personal observations for his transfiguration homework. He hit its shell with a _lumonitio_ and it began glowing feebly, the light flickering and fading as the turtle slowly wandered away.

He felt discouraged. Evening began to show in the sky, but he didn't want to go to dinner yet. His first day had started out so well, but he'd already ended up on the wrong side of both the caretaker and his head of house.

And the day wasn't over yet.

* * *

Once Pansy had worked off most of her aggression and calmed down a bit, they walked back to the castle for dinner, though it would be nearly over. As they reached the entrance hall, they nearly ran into the Gryffindor Quidditch team who were bantering and laughing as they left the great hall.

Harry ignored the louder older students at first and kept walking, only to have someone catch his shoulder. He stumbled, turned halfway to prevent himself from falling, and found himself face to face with a burly fifth-year standing in his way. He looked at Harry with an expression that could best be described as disappointment.

"Now what?" Harry snapped, not in the mood for putting up with _anything_ more. "I'm not allowed to come to dinner without an escort?"

The Gryffindor boy narrowed his eyes slightly, and Harry realized he wasn't actually a prefect. "Slytherin?" he asked quietly. "Why?"

Harry blinked, taken aback.

The older boy shook his head, an almost pained look in his eyes. "I've been thinking about it, all night, all day. I can't stop wondering. Why?"

"Because that's where the _best_ go, obviously," Pansy said. She pushed closer to Harry's side, chin defiantly in the air, staring down her nose at the much larger boy. "Of course, _you_ wouldn't know that."

Harry resisted the desire to sigh or slink away in shame. As much as he wanted to avoid any conflict, he would stand by Pansy even if her temper kept getting them both in trouble.

"I'm not asking _you_ , Parkinson," the Gryffindor growled.

The rest of the team had gathered around them now, making Harry feel confined. His defiance melted instantly. He didn't like being surrounded by people, had to fight down a rising instinct to dodge through and run while there was still a chance.

"I want to go to dinner," Harry said, his voice shaking. "Please let me by."

He knew his fear was obvious, hated himself for showing just how helpless he felt, but had far more experience in exaggerating weakness than feigning strength.

"And here we thought the Potters were a _Light_ house," said an older girl, glaring at him. "Why would you hang around an arrogant cow like _her_?"

"Because the _Boy-Who-Lived_ has more sense than to associate with blood-traitors like _you_ do," Pansy said, glaring at the red-headed twins who stood behind and to either side of the largest boy. The two Weasleys had been hanging back, looked at least a little uncomfortable, but their expressions darkened at Pansy's words.

"Is that really the best you can do?" Fred asked, unless it was George.

"The _Boy-Who-Lived_ has to settle for an angry shrew like _Parkinson_?" demanded George, or possibly Fred.

"Really, Harry? Even in Slytherin, I'm sure you can do better."

Harry felt tears building in his throat, he wanted to run away, he wanted to scream and hit the Gryffindors, he wanted to sit down and cry. _Again_. He glanced at Pansy, her face bright red with outrage, and his anger blazed up to match hers. Frustration twisted away and was consumed in a moment, his fear evaporating under the heat.

"Leave her _alone_!" Harry snapped. His hand was gripping his wand tight. "My friends are none of your business." His voice trembled, but with anger instead of fear. He held onto his protective fury like a shield.

"Come on, Wood," one of the twins muttered. "Let's go."

Shooting one last glare at Pansy, the twins broke from the group of Gryffindors and started toward the stairs. Their departure was enough to break the group, and the rest started following.

Wood hesitated, still standing in Harry's way as the rest of the team left, watching Harry with that look of barely concealed disgust. "Some hero you turned out to be," he muttered. "Joining the enemy right from the start. You're really going to betray everyone who put their hope in you?"

"I never wanted to be a hero," Harry growled. "And I never asked anyone to pin their _hopes_ on me."

He stalked around the older boy, and Wood made no move to stop him. Harry heard Pansy's voice behind him, no doubt delivering a final taunt, but he wasn't paying attention. The babble of voices around the great hall seemed to roar in his ears.

He found an empty spot near the middle of the Slytherin bench, flopped his face and arms onto the table in front of him. _Hero. Savior. Powerful. Wealthy._

None of it mattered just then, in the face of their disappointment. Breaking their expectations, choosing to defy his closest family in favour of his more distant lineage, had been a choice with more repercussions than he'd have guessed.

His emotional thoughts traitorously wished he could go back and change it. Just let him be stuffed in Gryffindor, play along with their expectations of heroism.

Until his rational mind caught up.

Give up on his own life for their whims? No. That was how he'd lived with the Dursleys, letting _them_ decide who he'd become. Letting them put him where _they_ wanted, not where he chose.

Never again.

Harry blinked away the tears, firmed his expression, and sat up straight. He did his best to remain aloof, ignoring Slytherins and the other houses alike. If they wanted nothing to do with him, then he would have nothing to do with them, and do it _better_. He didn't need any of them.

Pansy sat down beside him, close to his side, and he blinked over at her.

"Looks like we've missed everything but dessert," she said. "Looks like these biscuits would be hearty enough, though, practically granola."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. He accepted the cookie and stared at it. "You're the first person my age to just unconditionally be my friend."

Pansy looked taken aback. "That can't be right," she said, with a stuttering laugh. Her expression was still clouded, her face still red with anger, but now she looked a little shocked too. "You must have had lots of friends wherever you grew up."

Harry shook his head. "The only people I knew there were muggles," he said.

Pansy looked properly affronted by the revelation. " _Muggles?_ You're right, they don't count at all. Stupid filth, not worthy of you or I."

Harry nodded agreement. "They liked to hit me, the muggles my age," he confided, hesitantly. "I had to run, I didn't know about magic. Sometimes I'd get away mysteriously, but more often they caught me."

Pansy looked livid. "You didn't know about magic?" she asked, lowering her voice. "How could that have been allowed? _Everyone_ knows about you, and you didn't even know your own power? And you let muggle children _hit_ you?"

"I was raised by muggles, to keep me safe from Voldemort's followers." Harry's tone turned bitter. "No wizard would think to look for the great _Harry Potter_ living with muggles."

Pansy frowned more deeply still. "That's nonsense of the highest order," she snapped. "Everyone says your parents used a Fidelius charm to protect themselves, obviously your next of kin should have done the same for _you_."

This, Harry had not heard of before. "Fidelius charm?"

"It's a very advanced ritual, I don't know how it works, but it binds the knowledge of a person or place to a group, the secret keepers. Then they are the _only_ ones who can reveal the information, even if lots of other people already know. It's very powerful, almost undefeatable. Hiding out with _muggles_ is hardly close to equal."

Pansy's face hardened. " _Especially_ if it meant you'd be subjected to their primitive violent behavior. I can't believe this could be allowed to happen."

Harry's old fears of being unwanted came flooding back. If such powerful protective magic existed, _why_ had no one in the wizard world been willing to take him in? Why had he been left with the Dursleys?

His gaze flicked to the head table without his conscious thought, to where Dumbledore sat with his calm smile and twinkling eyes, then just as quickly darted away.

The Watcher had _much_ to answer for.

The students casually finished their plates after the food disappeared from the serving platters. Most of the teachers left, while groups of students loitered about. Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger had formed a study group and was reading aloud from one of the schoolbooks.

Harry thought that he should probably do some studying ahead himself, but in view of his repeated failures at spellcasting when not borrowing the professor's wand, he supposed the most important thing to do would be find a way to bond it to him better.

"Pansy," he whispered, leaning toward her. "Do you know anything about wands?"

She shrugged. "Not much. They focus our magic, allow greater and more powerful spells than could be done without them. They're registered with the Ministry when created, and can be Traced if used in unauthorized ways."

"I mean, like, Mr. Ollivander said 'the wand chooses the wizard', like they're alive."

"They aren't alive," Pansy said, sounding disdainful. "Different materials are better for different purposes, and different witches have different strengths so wands can be better or ill suited for you. If I were good at charms and transfiguration, and then my wand were best suited for healing and potions. . . it wouldn't work as well. That's the only reason."

Harry took out his wand, felt the warmth of magic, the quiet sense of expectation and waiting. "I really feel like it _wants_ something from me, something it isn't sure I can give."

"That's your own uncertainty being reflected," Pansy said. "Your mind and emotions and magic are all combined. My father says that being able to control your desires and your passions are as important as perfect wandwork."

"Really?" Harry asked.

Pansy nodded. "A _lot_ of the advanced magic is dependent as much on emotion as on magical strength and precision of motion. All the unforgivables are like that too."

"Unforgivables?" Harry asked.

Pansy nodded. "Imperio, Crucio, and Avada Kedavra. The three curses that can't be excused. No matter if it is for a good cause, if you get caught using any of them you go straight to Azkaban." She smirked. "If you get _caught_. My sister won't tell me the wand and mental parts of them. I'd _love_ to peg that _mudblood_ down a bit."

Harry followed her gaze to Hermione's impromptu study group. A few students appeared to have become bored and left, but she was gesturing as enthusiastically as ever.

"Why?" he asked.

Pansy stared at him. "Are you joking? She's a _mudblood_ , and she thinks she's better than everyone else. What more reason do you need?"

"Well, she's just trying to help the other students," Harry said. "Like you're helping me."

Pansy stood up abruptly. "Take that back," she hissed. "I am _nothing_ like _her_."

Harry hunched lower, shook his head quickly. "I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry."

"Just remember," she said, staring down at him. " _We_ are far superior to _them_ , and you would do well not to offer insult to your equals and betters by comparing them to anything so _worthless_." She glanced at the group, her eyes going cold and hateful. "I wish I knew any proper hexes."

Harry couldn't help thinking that it was probably a good thing that Pansy didn't.

* * *

It was a relief to return to the common room, away from so many faces. In the crowded great hall Harry could feel them all judging him, even when it seemed no one was looking at him.

He didn't want to start his homework yet, knew he was too stressed to focus. He went straight to bed, ignoring Draco and his gang as well as everyone else in the common room. Pansy said she wanted to continue her attempts at creating allies among the girls, Harry wished her the best of luck and got out of her way.

That night, Harry dreamed of being locked in his cupboard while all the other houses jeered at him for being the Heir of Slytherin. He tried to protest that he was just there to learn like them, just another student, but he could only talk in parseltongue and they just keep laughing and pointing because the other side of his cupboard opened onto the great hall. It was like his sorting, but he was wrapped up in heavy curtains and couldn't move, and they were all watching and laughing.

He woke with a gasp, wondered what time it was, then lay back down. The windows above were deep dark, no glimmer of dawn light yet. Any memory of the dream faded, but he still slept restlessly until morning.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I'm somewhat hesitant about this chapter; I'm not sure it's quite right, but I can't pin down why. _

_My sincerest apologies for missing last update, I got distracted by yet another side-project. Inheritance Trials is a shorter, goofier AU about an overpowered smart version of Ron, who is the Heir of Hogwarts and must pass four trials to claim his true power. Year One is complete at around 18k, and that's all I intend to write at present; I have plenty of stories already and need to avoid getting sidetracked any more than necessary.  
_

 _If this month has shown me anything, it's that I can't actually update regularly every three days. I will have to reduce my update schedule to accommodate for my many stories, though I'm still in the process of working out what that reduction will end up looking like. Between work and life in general, I just don't have the time or energy to put out as much content as I'd like to. I wish I didn't have to do this; the schedule I devised is quite ideal, apart from the simple fact that it's completely unsustainable in my present state._


	18. Splintering

Once again, Harry was the first awake in his dorm. He washed up, dressed, made his bed, and nearly trod on a silver-wrapped parcel set just inside the door. He set down his bag of books and leaned over to examine it. The tag read 'Harry' and nothing else. He frowned at it a moment, then slowly untied the green silk ribbon, unfolded the paper.

Inside was a steel pocket watch on a chain, ornate workings around the letters 'HP' on its cover. Its surface was cool and smooth, the inlays and raised patterns protected beneath a clear firm coating.

He turned it over. The back was just as smooth to touch, but beneath the overlay he made out three intricate serpents, each scale delineated perfectly, twisting around each other in an elegant almost-symmetrical tangle. It would take minutes of directed effort to trace each snake from head to tail.

The snakes formed a triangle, while around them lay three smaller ovals with individual icons in them. A flame, a bird, and a mountain, if Harry was interpreting the stylization correctly.

He popped the lid open, unsure what to expect. Wizard clocks sometimes did what you'd expect, and other times were completely foreign. This one only had four hands. The face was marked with numbers like a muggle clock and dots for the half hours, but also had a white-to-orange colour range on the left side and a blue-to-white colour range on the right side. The hour and minute hands were ornate and looked like normal clock hands. The right-side extra hand was shaped like a teardrop, while the left-side hand was shaped like a flame.

There were no instructions with it, and no indication of who had left it for him. He tucked it into his left-hand pocket, the one opposite his wand, and collected his bag before continuing down to the common room.

It was completely deserted, though he did notice the purple-banded serpent coiled in a corner. It glanced up when he stepped closer, but didn't speak. Harry guessed that Professor Quirrell didn't have time to meet with him every morning, even though he had so many questions to ask.

Mostly, though, he needed help with his mental fortitude. He'd broken his composure twice, on his very first day of classes, and that was an unacceptable status quo. He would not remain that weakling.

How many times did he have to make the same resolutions before they'd stick? How much of his life would be spent fighting the same mental battles again and again?

He couldn't bear thinking about it. He would push it away, make himself forget about the Dursleys as completely as time and distance allowed. He would immerse himself in Hogwarts, in open fields and magic and freedom and power.

He nodded to himself, then chose a table and spread out his books and parchments. In the quiet of the morning, he might have a better chance at finishing his homework without distractions.

Harry had written nearly an inch about the four basic wand positions - his Charms homework - when Pansy shuffled into the common room. She was yawning, one hand over her mouth, and her own book-bag slung over her shoulder.

Harry stood, grinning. "Good morning, Pansy!"

"Morning," she said, collapsing into the chair opposite him at the table. "You found my present, I trust?"

Harry pulled out the watch, rubbed his hand fondly across its smooth surface. "This was from you?"

"I was going to save it for Christmas, but I noticed you didn't have a watch of your own and wouldn't want you to be late for classes. I don't know when your birthday is, but consider it a start for all the ones you were forced to spend with muggles." She grinned and leaned closer. "First, turn it over."

He did so, and startled. The three entwined snakes were now outlined in glowing green.

"It's a very special watch," she said, pulling a matching one from her pocket. It had different carvings, but the back was the same serpentine triangle. Hers too was glowing green.

"This middle one represents us. When it's glowing, we're both touching our watches. Set it down."

She set her own on the table, and sure enough, the middle snake went dull. The ones on either side now glowed faintly white.

"That means we're awake. It only makes the connection when we're both within a certain distance of each other. I don't remember the exact limits. Maybe a mile? But that's how I knew to come down so early."

She yawned again, trying and failing to conceal it.

"How late did you stay up?" Harry asked.

"A few hours more than I should have," Pansy admitted. "But Reiko was telling us about Mahoutokoro and it was absolutely _fascinating_. Did you know they have classes from the age of _seven_ and fly on giant birds to get to their castle? It sounds beautiful, to hear her describe it."

"What's Mahoutokoro?" Harry asked, completely lost.

"The Japanese school of magic, of course. That's where Reiko is from. Her family moved here only last year."

Harry's mind suddenly made the connection. "She's the one who had trouble in Charms."

"Yeah. She knows English pretty well, but never spoke it much before this year. She'll get better." Pansy hesitated a moment. "She's pureblood, you know, and the Mahoutokoro wizards are known for their intelligence and high ability. I wouldn't be surprised if she's top of the class by third year."

Harry idly flipped open the watch, which now indicated the time to be around 6:39, the blue level to be mostly-white, and the red level to be somewhere near the middle.

"What do these indicate?" Harry asked.

"Humidity and temperature, obviously," Pansy said. "I wanted to have extra spells built in, but that would have taken even longer. We can have it upgraded during the summer, if you want."

"It's perfect already," Harry said. He wished he knew of anything he could get for her. He supposed if he had the names of any shop owners, he could send Hedwig with an order, but he didn't.

Ignorant halfblood, raised by muggles. Never before had he felt quite so ashamed of what he was. Though completely outside his control, Harry felt he couldn't stand it.

"When is your birthday?" Pansy asked. "Mine is April 9."

"July 31," Harry answered.

School would be out by then. He didn't know what would happen to him. Would he be forced to return to the Dursleys? Perhaps he could stay at school instead, and Professor Quirrell could continue training him.

"We should have a party!" Pansy said. "Upper Woodfordshire is so dull in the summer, but it's a beautiful spot for a party."

"I've never heard of it," Harry said.

"It's a very respectable wizarding community, about a dozen families. Us, Crabbe, Travers, Hanley, and Stretton are the big ones. Down the hill are newer families like Bletchley and Widdon, trying to establish themselves, or foreigners like that Lementeur bloke or the Singh family. It used to be bigger before the war, but it's still pretty expensive to move into. Miranda and I used to sneak into the unowned manors to explore."

"Miranda?" Harry asked.

"Vincent's sister. She'll be starting in another year or two. You should have seen her face when she realized both me and her brother would be leaving her all school year. She refused to talk to either of us for a week. Of course, after that, it was all you could do to get away from her for five minutes. Trying to pack the whole school year into those last weeks." Pansy shook her head, smiling fondly.

"Do you have any siblings yourself?" Harry asked.

"Primma, I mean, _Primula_ , is my sister. She's starting her NEWTs this year, so I doubt I'll see much of her." Pansy scowled, making that ugly-dog face that Harry was beginning to grow fond of. "Not that it stops her chasing half the boys in the school," she muttered more quietly.

"I don't think I've seen her," Harry said.

"You wouldn't have. Not for another couple years, yet. If she were a year or two younger, she'd be after you like a monkey after a fruit-seller, but she's too old. She'll be graduating after next year, and you still only my age." Pansy grinned. "So you're all mine."

"Ah," Harry said, not sure where to go from there. The conversation didn't seem to be going anywhere particular now, and he didn't know enough to direct it himself.

Pansy stifled another yawn.

"Maybe you should sleep a little longer?" Harry suggested.

"No, everyone else will be up soon, this is our only chance to talk privately. I have the notes copied for you, too."

She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a scrolled parchment bundle. "That includes the list of students and relationships, mostly only in our year so far, and the descriptions of who wanted what from you."

Harry unrolled it briefly, caught a glimpse of a vast diagram, and rerolled it hastily. "I'll look at it later when I have time to read it properly," he promised. "Thank you."

She beamed. "My mother always said, the way to become indispensable was to anticipate what would be needed and do it without hesitation. Just wait and see. By the end of the term, you won't know how you lived without me."

Harry wasn't sure if that sounded like indispensable or taken for granted, but since it was him he knew there was no risk of that. He would never take Pansy's friendship and help for granted.

It meant more to him than anything else in his entire life. Though Professor Quirrell was a _very_ close second, with Mrs. Figg barely relegated to third. His first protector, his first teacher, his first friend. They each had their own claim on his loyalty forever. And Harry wouldn't forget that. No matter what.

"That's already true," he said. "You really needn't worry, and you don't have to keep doing things for me."

He rubbed his fingers along the cool smooth steel of the watch Pansy had given him, the surface calming and bolstering. While his wand reminded him of power and his individual future, the watch reminded him of his friends. It seemed a good balance to him. He only wished he knew a way to repay her, a way to show her how much _she_ meant to him, as she'd already shown his worth to her.

"You should come with me sometime to meet Professor Quirrell," Harry suggested eagerly. "He's teaching me magic."

Pansy scowled at him. "That worthless bookbird? He was enough of a disaster as a Muggle Studies teacher from what Primma told me. I can't imagine the purpose of putting him in charge of _Defence_. We'll be lucky to learn a single thing this year."

"He's not like that," Harry protested. "He's really smart, knowledgeable, and can teach really well. He already showed me the cast light spell yesterday."

" _Cast Light?_ " Pansy asked, sounding irritated. "Is that what you were trying to do last night? What a pointless spell. Lumos isn't good enough for him, he needs to get clever and fancy with his magic. Ugh, _Ravenclaws_."

"He's not a Ravenclaw," Harry insisted. "I'm sure he's a Slytherin. He certainly acts like it."

"Oh? And what would you know about acting like a Slytherin? You've been here two days _if_ we count the one spent on the _train_."

Harry stiffened, anger trickling through him. And hurt. He knew he wasn't the most familiar with wizarding customs, but Professor Quirrell had been teaching him as much as was possible with their limitations.

"He's the best teacher in the whole school, maybe in the whole world," Harry said firmly. "I don't need to know more than that. He was the only one who cared to come see me while I was trapped in that nightmare. He's the only one who even _tried_ to save me."

He immediately felt bad excluding Mrs. Figg, but she really couldn't count. She was nice, but ineffective. A safe haven, but not a rescuer.

"Well, won't we just see that in a few hours?" Pansy demanded. "He's our first class today, we'll be able to find out first-hand whether he's really any good or if you're just prejudiced."

Harry was angry now. He wanted to prove to Pansy that Professor Quirrell was worth her time and his, but he didn't want to keep arguing with her. It made him sad, made him feel uncomfortable in new and disquieting ways. He felt. . . betrayed. How could she say those things? Didn't she trust his judgment at all?

"Yeah," he retorted. "We _will_ see."

Did she only see him as someone to tag along after her, someone to drag along, a charity case? Or did she even consider him a _friend_ at all? He cared so much about her, even only after a couple days, it really hurt to think that she may not even care about him after all.

He wanted to turn and run, to hide in his cupboard - no, he had a dorm bedroom now - and to leave her to her grouchy refusal to listen. What did it matter if she hated Professor Quirrell, after all? But the thought of leaving made him even more uncomfortable than staying.

"Looks like I have a new data point to record then," Pansy said, snatching away the pages she'd given him. She spread out the Slytherin chart and fumbled her quill out of her bag. With a thick, angry stroke, she drew a line from 'Harry Potter' to a blank space, then wrote 'Quirrell' in big, violent letters. Harry was surprised the parchment didn't rip under the assault. She drew a heart around it, then shoved the parchment back into Harry's chest, smudging the damp ink.

She stood up primly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue my endeavors to build alliances and make observations within our class. I suggest you try doing the same."

Harry blinked after her as she stormed off to the girls' dorm, and wondered if that was it. Had he just lost his first friend, already?

"I just want you to give him a chance," he muttered angrily, though she was too far away to hear.

He stared after her a few minutes, holding the watch, torn between anger that she was being so unreasonable and the fear that she was actually done with him. The sense of betrayal cut him in a way nothing else ever had.

He turned the watch over, but it only showed two snakes glowing pale silvery-white. He jammed it back into his pocket, then hissed, "Lumonitio!"

The spell failed, despite the spiteful amount of force he tried to inject into the spell, his wand only letting out a feeble flicker of light that dripped from its tip onto the ground, vanishing the moment it touched the common room floor.

Furious, Harry flung the wand across the room. It bounced off a sleeping portrait, who awakened with a grouchy start of surprise.

"You throwing things now, young'un?" the portrait demanded in a scratchy, wavering voice that was nonetheless clearly used to being listened to.

"Yes, I am!" Harry snapped. He stalked over to the portrait, snatched up his wand, and aimed it at the irritated old painted man. "My only friend just refused to so much as listen to sense, because she has _preconceived notions_ about my teacher that her _sister_ told her secondhand about a _different class_ that he used to teach, and now she's gone off and I don't know what to do."

Somewhere in the middle of that tirade, his anger had mutated into muffled crying. But this time, Harry wasn't going to let his emotions have their way. He'd survived the Dursleys for too long to become a weakling crybaby the second he was free of them. Stiffening his resolve, he nonetheless leaned his forehead against the portrait.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"In my experience, young women like to be apologized to and bought expensive presents," the wizard said. "Though admittedly, my information is about a century out of date by now. I doubt women have changed that much."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!" Harry protested. "I just wanted her to give my teacher a chance."

"Nonsense," the wizard said, waving his hand about airily. "Apologizing is the only way to get anywhere. If she's worth half the attention you're giving her, she'll be ashamed of her own behavior enough to apologize too, and then everything will be fine. If she insists on carrying a grudge, then you should find yourself another girl."

"But _she's_ the one being unreasonable here! Why do I have to apologize?"

The portrait sighed. "Young fellow, the truth is, it's always easier to stay apart than to come back together. If neither of you makes a move, you could well just leave this simple argument between you forever. Let it fester and grow into a bottomless chasm, and you may well be estranged forever."

Harry shook his head miserably. "I don't want a bottomless chasm between me and Pansy."

"Good. Then you know what to do. And would you mind pointing your dripping wand somewhere else? It's making it hard to sleep."

Harry frowned at his wand, which continued oozing little faint flickers of light at a slow rate, dripping toward the floor and vanishing shortly after disengaging from the wand. He supposed he had pushed rather a lot of force into his failed lumonitio. It was a very interesting side-effect for a failed spell, he'd have to talk to Professor Quirrell about it.

If he ever had the time. The list of things to ask the Professor grew longer every hour. Harry doubted he'd even remember half of it.


	19. The Fragility of Certainty

Harry didn't take the portrait's advice immediately.

At breakfast he sat beside Draco Malfoy and made a point of not speaking to Pansy. She seemed hardly to notice his absence, talking animatedly with her collection of girls.

Harry had no idea how she'd accumulated so many hangers-on in two days, but it only stiffened his resolve to make her wait. He'd apologize at lunch, and not before. After she'd had a chance to see how Professor Quirrell was actually a great teacher.

"So," the Malfoy heir drawled as Harry sat down. "Finally realizing who your true friends need to be?"

"You offered help," Harry said. "Are you a man of your word?"

Draco stiffened slightly. "Of _course_."

"Then I'd like to accept your assistance in understanding what it means to be a proper Slytherin." Harry felt a sort of reckless defiance building within him, and didn't care anymore if this was the 'right' or 'wrong' choice. He couldn't be relying on portraits and emotional girls all the time.

He glanced over at Pansy, who seemed perfectly happy with her swarm of acquaintances, and his resolve stiffened. She would see.

"I'm sure you know Parkinson isn't a pureblood family any longer." Draco asked, apparently noticing his glance. "They make no secret of the fact. Generations removed - it was her grandfather who was the blood-traitor - but that kind of mistake doesn't just evaporate."

Harry's mother had been a mudblood, he knew. He turned, found Draco watching him with a slight smirking, half serious expression.

"We can learn from our ancestors' mistakes," Harry said stiffly. "And she can't control her lineage any more than you or I can."

"You're right, that it's our duty to learn from our families, but some families have more to teach than others." Draco smirked over at Pansy. "They're a clever family, the Parkinsons. Very clever, very subtle. They're careful to seem just rich enough, just 'mostly-pure' enough, to be respectable without too much being expected of them. But they're far and away the wealthiest halfblood family. They don't flout it, don't even speak of it."

Harry frowned. He hadn't guessed Pansy was wealthy. Then again, he hadn't thought _himself_ wealthy either. The wizarding world apparently had different definitions of 'normal' wealth levels.

"My father knows because we Malfoys have been practically running this country for generations," Drco continued proudly. "Most people, see, they treat her without expectations one way or another. They consider her a 'safe' option; not quite as high as them, but not so low it's going to hurt their own standing at all. And all the while, she's smiling and scribbling notes to report back to her web-spinner mother."

Draco slid a bite of ham into his mouth, watching Harry sideways.

"If you're trying to make me abandon her, it won't work," Harry said firmly. "She as much as told me she was only. . . hanging around with me because I'm the most famous and a newcomer." It kept surprising him, how much realizations about his friend could hurt, even having known her only two days.

Draco laughed. "That was a cover, of course. She's really after your money. Potter isn't a noble house, if such things can be considered to exist any more, but it is an ancient one. And your own grandparents were quite successful. Well, _paternal_ grandparents at least." He gave a bit of a sneer at the thought of Harry's mudblood mother.

"Why would Pansy need my money?" Harry asked. "You just said the Parkinsons are already really rich."

Draco smirked. "How do you think they got that way? You know the mudblood her grandfather married, that destroyed their flawless hundred years of purity? The one thing she had going for her? Land, and a lot of it. Not many families own additional properties these days, most are down to one or, occasionally, two. A lot of consolidation happened in the past few hundred years, a lot of restrictions, a lot of fortification. My father owns two vacation homes, and that's more than most. But the Parkinsons own an entire wizarding _village_."

Harry frowned. "How does that work?"

"No one lives there," Draco said offhandedly, pausing his speech for a minute to take another few bites. "It's a dead village at the moment, everyone killed or moved out during the war, but the Parkinsons bought or traded for it _all_. One piece at a time, with hardly anyone noticing. You'll notice we've had a major influx of foreign purebloods or returning halfblood families in the wake of the war's end? Within another few decades all those families will be expanding, looking for somewhere to settle properly. And who do you suppose will suddenly become even more wealthy?"

"The Parkinsons," Harry said, frowning.

"So," Draco smirked at him with obvious enjoyment of Harry's distress. "If she's done toying with you, feel free to step aside. She may be halfblood, but she could be a valuable ally to the wizard who knows what he's doing."

Harry stared down the table at Pansy. She didn't _look_ like a master manipulator, trying to ensnare the richest person she could find. He wanted to believe she was better than that, that she'd befriended him because she saw he needed her, not because she knew his family had money. Draco would have been the better choice, if that were her objective. Right?

Abruptly, he made his decision. He stood, bowed to Draco. "My thanks," he said. "Your information is appreciated."

"I'll let you know when you can repay me," Draco said, tilting his head in acknowledgment. "I'm sure I'll think of a way."

Harry didn't like leaving an open-ended favour hanging over him, especially to the Malfoy heir, but Draco had told him a lot that was apparently not well-known. And it was useful to be aware of, if only to have a proper understanding of their respective places.

He and Pansy were closer to equal than he'd at first realized. If anything, her status would be considerably _higher_ than his, if you set aside Harry's whole killed-Lord Voldemort-as-a-baby thing.

Which made it all the more important that she'd _chosen_ to come to him. She was used to being the one holding all the secrets, the one who knew her family's hidden worth, weighing everyone else against it. She wasn't a desperate clinger, someone who just decided to befriend Harry on a whim, or because of his scar.

She'd chosen him, and he wasn't going to let that be wasted. Harry still didn't want to give in first, but he hadn't survived the Dursleys without being able to swallow his pride. It was a stretch, thinking of how he could apologize

"Pansy," he said softly, standing behind her. She turned and glanced up at him, then smiled.

"Excuse me a minute, girls." She rose smoothly and took Harry's arm, led him down the table to a less crowded spot.

"Look," she began, as,

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted in the same instant.

"What for?" she asked.

"I shouldn't have gotten mad at you, or your sister, because of what you said. I'm not the only one allowed to have opinions." He felt awkward, his face hot. It sounded even worse when he put it that way.

But Pansy shook her head. "I wanted to apologize to you, Harry. It was a stupid thing for me to get so upset about. Maybe he's a bad teacher, maybe he's not, but that shouldn't come between us."

Harry nodded. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to do next. Even if the temporary rift between them had been repaired, he felt off-balance, out of sync. Unsure what would be acceptable. Should they pretend it had never happened, and go back to planning and running around the castle together?

But now he knew _her_ secrets, it felt. . . wrong to just pretend they were only two children again. She was _rich_. Not just a halfblood taking pity on another halfblood, but a wealthy heiress. Well, not quite, she had an older sister. Harry wasn't sure if they had a brother, or how inheritance worked in the wizard world.

He stood awkwardly, not able to think what move to make.

Pansy giggled. "Come on, I have more introductions for you."

Harry sighed, but allowed her to take his arm and drag him back. He had already seen Reiko around - the Japanese pureblood girl had a heavy accent and her hair was the darkest he'd ever seen. Pansy's other room-mates were Daphne Greengrass, a pretty, quiet girl with bright eyes and the only other female pureblood in their year, Tracey, Milicent, and Mildred.

Pansy introduced these last three by simply pointing to them in quick succession. Apart from Reiko and Daphne (presumably because of their blood-status) Pansy seemed most interested in the second-years. Imogen and Rachel sat close nearby, even though they were a year older, and joined in the conversation with casual surety.

Tracey had shoulder-length curly brown hair, dark eyes, and seemed perpetually distracted. While he watched, she tried to take a bite and turn to exclaim at something in the same moment, resulting in a collision that made Millicent and Mildred break into laughter.

The longer he watched, the more it seemed Tracey was the outsider of the group. Her sense of timing was off, way more than even Harry's own; she'd say things at just the wrong time or try to push her way into a conversation without waiting for a natural pause.

It seemed reckless to Harry. He wondered if Tracey would manage to integrate herself or only end up alienated.

Milicent was a large girl with a mid-length ponytail that Harry would have considered black if in any other company, but must be only very dark brown when measured against Reiko's. She was loud and outspoken, but upon observation she basically agreed with whatever Pansy said as though it were her own dearly-held belief.

Mildred looked sturdy but a bit thinner than Milicent (or even Pansy,) pale and freckled, with short brown hair and glasses. When she smiled at him when they were introduced, he noticed at once that her eyes were the clearest blue he'd ever seen. He wasn't sure they could possibly be natural.

But though the conversation was uncomfortable for him, it did have one positive outcome. After awkwardly fumbling through the ensuing discussion, he felt completely at ease again when it was finally back to just himself and Pansy.

* * *

Harry grimaced, very glad he'd apologized to Pansy _before_ Defence class rather than waiting for her to see the truth.

It turned out, as competent and incredible as he was in one-on-one sessions, Professor Quirrell's teaching style didn't translate particularly well to the classroom as a whole.

There was no room or time for individual tutoring here, no careful practicing and adjusting wand movements to perfection. Just Professor Quirrell's less than effective demonstrations (he used his older and weaker wand during class) and the students trying with minimal success to mimic him.

Harry was glad when class finally ended, so he no longer had to feel embarrassed by Professor Quirrell's obvious inability to handle a large class. It was a terrible shame; he was a great teacher, so patient and detailed in explaining things to Harry, but somehow his class just felt. . . bland and completely ordinary. Unexceptional.

Pansy did scoff as they departed class, unable to resist the chance.

"So that's your great teacher? Sorry, Harry, but I still think I should trust Primma's judgment on teachers more than yours."

"It's not like that when he teaches me," Harry said, his face hot. "I guess he's just better individually."

"Or you're an inexperienced judge of skill," Pansy said, but then smiled to show it wasn't meant unkindly. "Come on, let's get to lunch."

* * *

As the week went on, Harry grew more consumed by the world of magic. There were charms and spells and hexes and transfiguration and curses, each subset of magic had its own rules, each class of spell had its own type of wand movements.

Many transfigurations only required a touch with the wand, but more complicated mental preparation, whereas charms generally required near-perfect wandwork and precise pronunciation.

Transfiguration was the most technically difficult class, but one that Harry did at least passably well in. The simple wand motions were a huge factor, but he also found that his years of feigning, exaggerating, and suppressing emotions with the Dursleys had made his mind singularly well adapted to the mental effort required for the class.

He wasn't anywhere near top of the class in any subject, but in transfiguration he came the closest.

Herbology was even more boring than Defence, and almost as dull as History of Magic. Harry didn't see how gardening was supposed to be important to a wizard, that's what shopping was for. And they had to take it _three_ times a week! Harry felt he'd already had plenty of experience _gardening_ back in Privet Drive.

The class that stood out as the most unusual, though, was Potions. Like most magicks, it had its own set of rules and opaque requirements, but instead of simply wands and movements it _also_ required precise measuring of ingredients and impeccable timing. The size of the cauldron was as important as its materials; the type of spoon and how often you stirred mattered as much as the direction in which you did so.

Harry had barely glanced at his potions book by Friday, their first class in the subject, but what little he'd read was enough to completely baffle him.

The Potions dungeon was huge, easily twice the size of most other classrooms, and decorated with a disturbing array of curiosities - mostly dead animals or parts floating in various liquids. Harry could almost feel one particular jar of pickled eyeballs watching him as he sat down.

Then the Gryffindors arrived. Harry was quickly growing used to whispers following him everywhere, but this group always seemed to take his Sorting personally. Weasley, the red-haired pureblood from the train, kept glaring at Harry whenever he thought no one was looking, and he was sure he heard the words 'dark wizard' or 'next dark lord' several times from the other side of the room.

Harry sat straight, resisting the desire to shrink lower in his seat and hide. Ignore them, show strength, and they would get bored and leave him alone. Eventually.

It was hard, but he maintained a facade of calm until the professor swept in and the whispers fell silent.

Professor Snape, wearing his voluminous black robes and cloak, strode to the front of the room. He tapped his wand once against the side of his desk as he spun to face the class. The quiet sound traveled through the now quietly waiting classroom, bringing every student to complete attention.

He gave a brief introduction to the subject, which intrigued Harry far more than anything the textbook had mentioned, then let his gaze wander across the students as though weighing each of their potential.

"I don't expect many of you to understand the subtle power we will study here. Indeed, most of you will barely scrape by an acceptable grade. Every now and again, though, we are graced with someone truly. . . exceptional."

His eyes met Harry's, then flicked over toward Draco.

"Mister Malfoy, what would be the result of combining kava root with valerian, assuming you knew the proper preparation methods?"

"The first stage in the relaxation potion, Professor Snape," Draco said smoothly, smirking.

The professor gave a nod, barely glanced at Hermione, who had put her hand in the air the moment the question was asked. "Mr. Potter,"

Harry stiffened, glanced up at the professor. He had brought out his textbook and noteparchment, but was sure he wouldn't know the answer to whatever he was going to be asked.

"What is most important to remember when potion crafting?"

Hermione's hand went up again, though Harry saw Weasley trying to get her to put it down.

"Patience and caution?" Harry guessed. It certainly wasn't a textbook answer, but he hoped it was an acceptable one.

Snape watched him a moment longer, an unreadable expression flitting across his face, then gave a short nod. "Both essential skills to keep in mind. Our art is a volatile one, if not treated with the proper respect. Two points to Slytherin, well done both of you."

Draco looked smug. Hermione appeared frustrated. Harry just felt relieved. If the question had been anything actually difficult, he knew he would have failed miserably.

Snape finally turned his attention to Hermione. "Very well, Miss Granger, what is the traditional name for the longan fruit?"

She stood, mouth half open as she stared at the wall, obviously trying to bring an answer to mind. Snape gave her a nasty smile and gestured sharply. "Sit down, Miss Granger."

"The longan is a tropical fruit, commonly found in Asia," Hermione said quickly. "Its main use in potions-making is the de-aging potion, and the later stages of the relaxation potion you mentioned earlier—"

"None of that is what I asked," Snape said. "You'll find no benefit from being an insufferable know-it-all in my class. The correct answer is, of course, 'Dragon Eye'."

"That's not fair! That wasn't in _any_ of the potions _or_ herbology textbooks for our year."

"I told you to sit _down_ , Miss Granger. That will be a point lost from Gryffindor for backtalk and another for stubborn arrogance."

Hermione sat down, glaring and fuming, but restrained herself to angry muttering during the remainder of the class.

Potions was entirely different from most other classes, and though it required extreme precision Harry found it oddly relaxing. He couldn't help noticing that, mudblood or no, Hermione's potions tended to come out nearly perfect on the first try, a fact which made Draco furious. Still, he and Harry both managed to impress the professor, who gave an acknowledging nod to each of them.

* * *

 _Author's Notes_ _:_

 _I have been mildly dissatisfied with Snape in this scene, and kept pushing it back in the hopes that giving it more time will make things clearer, but at some point I have to actually post the thing. I'm having a very hard time finding a line I like between 'I hate James Potter' and 'But he's respectful and sumbissive and nothing at all like his father' and 'He's one of my Slytherins' and 'But I still hate James Potter'._

 _I don't want Severus to be an antagonist, really, but I don't want them to be all chummy either. I'm not sure yet where that balance lies.  
_


	20. Intent and Flight

_Intent and Flight_

* * *

"The first, deepest, most essential part of all magic is _focused intent_." Professor Haddeley waved her wand so the word 'INTENT' appeared on her blackboard. "Some say it's about thought, but that's really an inaccuracy. You can stare at an apple all day and think to yourself 'I'm going to pick up that apple' but until you act the apple won't move. Much the same with magic."

She smiled. "Since you are all here, you've proven that you're capable of utilizing your magical intent. There are many, far more than anyone could guess, people in the world who are what we call 'squibs' - that is, those born with the physical capacity for magic but without the mental ability to apply it.

"A wand strengthens that intent, an incantation focuses that intent, the wand motions guide that intent, but without intent at the base of everything you do _nothing will happen_. So today, I want you all to think back to your other lessons. Was there a time when you did particularly well? Do you remember what you were thinking and feeling at the time? I bet it was concentration on actually performing the magic before you."

Harry found himself nodding. That was how he'd broken out of his cupboard, after all. By _intending_ it to open for days and days. He ran his hand along the smooth wood of his wand, enjoying the feel of power beneath his fingertips. The wand made him stronger.

"The students who most often succeed are those with the determination to act and the confidence to press on. Magic is not an easy or simple course, not a frivolous collection of fanciful words and bright lights. Magic is a powerful physical force, something dangerous in the extreme, fickle and unyielding at once. Magic is desire and reflex, joy and hatred, beauty and destruction, everything and nothing."

Professor Haddeley's voice rose as she spoke, becoming dramatic and pressing and intense. "Now, everyone together, _intend_ for your wands to light, lift them high, and give me a _lumos_!"

Harry felt her passion echoed in himself, knew that regardless of the words she used, the heart of it was the same. Magic was _everything_. Did it matter that he, Harry, had no real purpose? Did the fact that he wanted magic for its own sake, for the sake of his personal power and self-sufficiency, in any way detract from its value?

 _Beauty and destruction_ , she had said. Harry thought about beauty, about everything magical he had ever encountered. Everything from the snakes that somehow found their way to him through cities and towns where there ought not to be any of them, to the owls that always knew how to deliver their mail, to Professor Quirrell, and Hogwarts Castle itself.

Harry knew about destructive magic, knew that Lord Voldemort had slain his parents, knew that there had been a long bloody war before he was born. But it was hard to connect that reality, the darkness and fear that had once accompanied magic, to the reality he had seen.

Even the simple jinxes and hexes that students threw at each other in the halls - and Harry was by no means exempt; as a Slytherin he was a favourite target - for all their 'harmful' effect were really just lighthearted fun. Magic was a good thing, a grand thing, something that Harry would cherish forever.

"LUMOS!" the class roared in ragged unison, lifting wands.

Harry raised his own, his heart overflowing with emotion. _Magic is true power_ , he thought, and intended for his wand to light. For once, it did so. Strongly, glowing out brighter than anyone else in the room.

Harry grinned, and for that one moment everything felt perfect. He didn't care that the other houses despised him. He didn't care that he was going to return to Privet Drive for two months during the summer. Nothing in the world mattered, compared to the purity of this _power_ that he, for that fleeting moment, understood perfectly.

He felt very strange for a moment, as though watching himself, emotion gone, everything filtered through this new reality he saw. Everything that happened to him, everything he did, and everyone who he interacted with. All connected.

Then his wandlight flickered, his concentration evaporated. The lumos faltered, a thin trail of light trickling down from his wand's tip like glowing liquid. It faded as it traced its way between the intricate raised patterns of Harry's wand, vanishing completely before reaching his hand.

Harry lowered his wand, feeling strangely weary. Using magic wasn't really tiring in the normal way, though his practice sessions with Professor Quirrell often left Harry feeling quite overworked, but this was something else. Something deeper, elusive and unknowable.

Whatever understanding had briefly filled him was gone now, the world looked as it always had, and he once more felt small and alone and uncertain.

Then Pansy grabbed his hand and grinned across at him, and he smiled back. But as she turned away, his smile faded. Whatever elation he'd felt was gone, his concentration on the lesson broken completely. He felt like he was just shy of remembering part of that new reality hiding within everything else, like a moment's more thought would bring it back to mind.

Emotions were distracting things anyway.

But though he strained his memory throughout the rest of the class, the knowledge remained out of reach. He departed for Herbology still disgruntled, and if anyone had asked him what the rest of Theory class had been about he'd have been unable to answer.

* * *

After Herbology came History of Magic, which absolutely no one was paying attention to. Today was to be the start of broomstick riding lessons for the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years.

Draco had been going on for days, ever since the lessons were announced at the beginning of the week, bragging to anyone who would listen about his exploits flying as a child. Somehow most of the tales seemed to involve narrowly escaping from muggles in planes.

Any time a teacher was around, Draco would loudly bemoan the fact that first years were never allowed to join the Quidditch team, no matter their natural talent and unmistakable skill.

Harry was beginning to think he'd gotten the wrong impression of Draco from their few interactions. The longer Draco spent at Hogwarts, the less careful he seemed to become in his behavior and the more he just acted like a rich _brat_. Which seemed completely at odds with his cooler, more calculating manner when dealing with Harry.

Nearly every time Harry saw him about the school, he was picking fights with Gryffindors, mocking Hufflepuffs, or even (more rarely) ridiculing Ravenclaws.

He didn't say anything, of course, because the Malfoys were still a rich and powerful family and as Harry was only a a halfblood himself it wasn't his place to criticize, but he felt like someone should intervene and quickly before Draco ended up as nothing more than a petty bully. He may have a head start on the rest of the class, but if he didn't take proper advantage of it he could end up just as spoiled and useless as Dudley.

As they lined up at the row of mismatched school brooms on their side of the field - Gryffindors facing them across an open patch - Draco kicked at his broom and said loudly that if _he_ ever was chosen to play Quidditch he _knew_ his father would do something about the lamentable condition of Slytherin house's school broomsticks.

Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, strode out between the two lines of students. "Everyone standing by a broomstick? Hurry up, come on."

The Slytherins next to him prevented Harry from seeing much of their own side. On the Gryffindor line, Nereva edged closer to the broom as though it would bite her. Hermione was staring at hers distrustfully. Weasley was nearly bouncing in eagerness.

Harry stood, nervous excitement working its way through him. Flying. _Flying_. At last.

"Put away your wand, Miss Peebles," Madam Hooch instructed briskly, "the broomsticks are quite self-sufficient and wayward spellcasting would only endanger you." Scattered nervous laughter followed her words. "Everyone now, place your hand over the broom and give the command, _UP_."

"UP!" Harry shouted, along with the rest of the training group. The broomstick leapt into his waiting hand so quickly he almost forgot to grab it.

Not everyone was so fortunate. Hermione and Nereva in particular, standing across from Harry, seemed to be having a hard time, as though the brooms sensed their fear. Nereva seemed to be pleading, while Hermione's voice held an audible quaver.

"Keep trying, you'll get it," Madam Hooch ordered, and the scattered voices of students overlapped as they tried to bring their brooms to their hands.

"Bet that Longbottom falls off within the first minute," Draco muttered to Vincent.

The larger boy shook his head. "The only way I'd take that bet is if I were betting she doesn't last ten seconds."

Draco chuckled. "At least you have _some_ sense. How about you, Gregory? Wanna bet Longbottom lasts at least a minute?"

The other boy shrugged. "Sure, Draco, whatever you say."

Vincent gave a snort as Draco and Gregory shook hands, somewhat awkwardly since they each had only their left free.

"Attention you lot. Stay focused." Madam Hooch's voice snapped Harry's attention back to her. The facing row of Gryffindors all had ahold of their brooms now. "Now, step forward if I call your name."

She began listing off names, and the students took steps forward. Harry was baffled, but when his name was called he did as instructed, still holding the broom. Pansy was still behind, as was Draco, while Harry and the two goons were among the front row.

"Keep going, right up to this line, that's right."

The two lines had become a staggered zigzag on each side of the field, and Harry was increasingly confused.

"Now, mount your brooms like _so_."

She swung her leg over her own broomstick, carefully demonstrated the correct forward angle. "Be sure your hands are positioned properly within the steering area, sliding them forward or back will be taken as instructions, as will twisting them around the stick. You should be centered within the seating area, go ahead and adjust your position until you're confident of it. Mr. Malfoy, what is that? Do you _want_ to fall off your broom?"

"I've been flying for _years_ ," Draco protested.

"If you've been doing it like _that_ , then you've been doing it _wrong_ for years," Madam Hooch said.

She dismounted and strode over to correct Draco's grip amid sniggers from the Gryffindors. Nereva let out a terrified cough-snort as she turned her attention toward them. "Miss Longbottom, relax your grip a bit or you'll have no control."

Nereva gave a jump of shock at hearing her name called, sending herself and the broom shooting straight up and into the air.

"Hold still!" Madam Hooch shouted, wand suddenly in her hand as she ran back to her own broom. "The rest of you, stay on the ground."

She glared toward Weasley, who looked ready to jump into the air after his classmate, then pushed off herself.

Nereva gave a terrified squeal as she somehow managed to flip the broom over, leaving her clinging to it with her hands and legs for dear life. It moved erratically as her fingers slipped, first one way, then another.

" _Stabilius Leviosa_ ," Madam Hooch called as soon as she was near enough, giving a tight wand gesture.

Nereva's broomstick stopped moving, then began to gently descend at Madam Hooch's direction, but not quickly enough for Nereva's flagging strength. Before she could try to right her own seating, she lost her grip and plummeted toward the ground with a panicked scream.

Madam Hooch dove after her in a sudden blur of movement, snatched her ankle before she'd fallen halfway, and began a careful slow descent. "Calm down, Miss Longbottom!"

Nereva's flailing didn't stop until she was back on the ground, at which point she simply fainted.

Draco laughed aloud, as did most of the Slytherins. "Looks like you owe me, Gregory!"

"Silence," Madam Hooch snapped. "And I want none of you in the air until I return, understand? Stay where you are. _Locomotor_."

Nereva's unconscious form lifted from the ground. Madam Hooch started briskly toward the castle, floating Nereva in front of her.

"Did you see the look on her face?" Pansy asked, resuming her laughter the moment the teacher was out of sight. "That one's a squib for sure."

"She's just afraid of falling, that doesn't mean she's a squib," Weasley retorted from the Gryffindor line. "Shut up about what you don't know, Parkinson!"

"Try and stop me, Weasley," Pansy retorted in a provocative singsong. "Or did your blood-traitor parents not bother teaching you any _real_ magic?"

The red-haired boy spluttered angrily, but didn't draw his wand and seemed to be having a hard time coming up with a retort.

"Like the _real magic_ you've been demonstrating in class?" Hermione asked sweetly. "Oh, wait, you need to cling to your _famous boyfriend_ for every _syllable_ , isn't that right Parkinson?"

"What do _you_ know, Granger?" Pansy snapped. "You're not _in_ any of our classes."

"Thank goodness for that," Harry muttered. Pansy was not one to give up once riled, and if Hermione shared any more classes with Slytherin he would never have a moment's peace. At least in potions Professor Snape generally kept the girls quiet and away from each others' throats, and in History of Magic everyone was too busy sleeping.

Vincent, the only one near enough to overhear, gave a quiet chuckle. "Good one, Potter," he said quietly.

"As if a mudblood like yourself could be any sort of challenge," Draco drawled. "You only manage potions because they require the least amount of magical ability."

"That is _so_ not true!" Hermione snapped, her voice going up nearly an octave. "I am the _top_ in _every_ class I'll have you know, and potions _does_ require magic. Have you _never_ opened a textbook?"

"Then I challenge you to a duel," Draco said, and though Harry was several steps in front of the Malfoy heir he could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. "Unless you're too much of a coward to face me like a _real_ witch would."

"Yeah, we'll take you on any day!" Weasley shouted, but Hermione shook her head.

"Duels are _not_ allowed at Hogwarts," the girl said, "and you know that as well as I do. You just want to trick me into breaking the rules so your father can have me expelled."

" _I'll_ fight you!" Weasley shouted, ignoring Hermione's protests. "I'll show you, you can't treat Gryffindors that way. Leave Nereva and Granger alone."

"You, Weasley?" Draco sneered. "You'd hardly be a challenge. _Goyle_ could take _you_ out."

"Name the time and place, I'll be there," Weasley retorted. "I'll show you what I can do!"

"Well, if you insist," Draco drawled lazily. "I'll send word once it's arranged."

"Ron, no! You'll lose us points," Hermione hissed. "You know this is just a trick."

But Weasley wasn't listening to her. "Deal, Malfoy. I'll look forward to making you eat your words."

Harry shook his head. "You arrange a secret and illegal duel in loud shouts in front of two dozen witnesses?" he grumbled quietly. "What happened to subtlety?"

Harry saw Vincent, still the only one near enough to hear, glance over at him appraisingly, but before Harry could decide out how to react Madam Hooch came bustling back out and all chatter died away.

"Right, everyone still mounted? Good, now. When I give the whistle, I want you all to kick off _gently_ from the ground. You'll go up, practice sliding your steering hand _slowly_ forward and back. You've got plenty of space, but don't do anything too quickly. Then, turn your hand clockwise and lean forward to touch back down."

She demonstrated the move, pushing lightly into the air, then flying slowly forward and back, before setting back down. "Three, two, one," and she blew the whistle.

Harry pushed off. The school broom wasn't the most comfortable, the cushioning charm wearing thin in places, but it didn't feel nearly as awkward as one would expect a broomstick to be for sitting on. He slid his hand forward and back, the broomstick moving fluidly through the air as though completely ignoring such mundane things as gravity and physics.

Harry grinned. The gentle breeze through his hair, the feeling of untethered freedom was like nothing he'd thought possible outside of dreams. He tried tilting a bit to the side as he moved forward, and the broom moved in a smooth arc. Twisting his steering hand counter-clockwise, he leaned back the other way and circled back and upward until he was back where he'd started but twenty feet higher. It felt so natural, so free. He thought he could fly forever.

"Mr. Potter! That's quite enough showing off, come back down."

He glanced over at the sound, saw the rest of the students were all on the ground already. He felt his cheeks heating, quickly brought himself downward. A bit too quickly. He stumbled on landing, tripped over the broom still between his legs, and stumbled forward amid general laughter. He barely avoided landing flat on his face, disentangled his broomstick, and backed up to his place in line.

Harry knew his face was flaming with embarrassment. He wanted to hide, wanted to stare at his feet and pretend that no one was watching him. It was a struggle to force himself to watch Madam Hooch with any semblance of calm, and it made his stomach tight and uncomfortable to maintain his unconcerned facade.

"And I thought you were the quiet and unassuming type," Pansy said from behind him, teasingly. Harry was sure his face couldn't get any redder, but he knew she was trying to cheer him up. He wished she'd have just let him forget it ever happened though.

"Eyes on me, all of you," Madam Hooch instructed. "As Mr. Potter demonstrated for us," more laughter from the Gryffindors, "leaning to either side will help steer your broomstick in that direction. I see your hand, Mr. Crabbe, be assured that we will be learning advanced steering, but not today. Stick to the basics. Now, on my whistle, push off and steer gently to the left. Slowly, mind, I don't want you crashing into each other. Three, two, one…"

Harry continued to excel as they continued with basic flight. It came to him so instinctively, he felt as though he'd been born for it. The freedom of watching the ground recede below him, the feeling of wind rushing past his face and rustling his hair, the air roaring in his ears, it was enough to make him forget his troubles completely.

He was stunned when the class came to an end. Surely that hadn't been nearly long enough? But his watch agreed with the bell, it was nearly dinnertime and the class was truly over.

Harry wanted to stay in the air, but Madame Hooch ordered everyone to the ground in no uncertain terms, and he reluctantly returned his broom.

He knew one thing for sure. Next time he was in Diagon Alley, he was going to buy the best, fastest broom he could afford, and in second year he would fly every day. He was so exhilarated by the experience that he didn't worry about the Dursleys' reaction to his coming home with a flying broom even for a second.

Any thought of his strange experience in Theory class that morning was completely forgotten.

* * *

 _Author's Note : _

_This whole story, apart from the prologue which is the one part actually properly beta'd, will probably be rewritten at some point. (Though me and editing don't get along well it seems and I have far too many stories and far too little time at present, so this isn't a -soon- thing.) I have seen it done both ways, and have a question to pose to y'all:_

 _When I eventually rewrite this story, should I simply update and replace the existing chapters with the new version, even if the plot goes in a somewhat different direction? Or leave this posted and add the updated version as its own thing? I would appreciate input on this matter, as I'm honestly unsure which would be better._

 _Edited September 25, 2018: corrected a few mistyped words.  
Edited September 26, 2018: forgot Nereva was a girl, again. :| Thank you, __Rowen-bsg, for pointing it out.  
Edited May 27, 2019: Missed a stray 'him' for Nereva, thank you ohm666 for pointing it out.  
_


	21. Beginning of Mysteries

_Beginning of Mysteries_

* * *

Dinner was a boisterous affair, everyone excited by the flying class. Draco presided smugly, satisfied in his personal ability in the air. Theo Nott just couldn't seem to shut up about how long it had been since he'd flown, how tragic it was that first-years weren't allowed brooms, and how hilarious it was that they were stuck learning with _Gryffindors_.

"Just so long as we keep showing them up," Draco drawled. "You had much practice in the air, Potter?" He flicked a slice of potato into the air with his fork and caught it in his mouth.

Harry shook his head, grinning. "First time on a broom," he declared. "It felt so easy."

Draco leaned forward slightly. "First time? You can't be serious."

"First time," Harry repeated, feeling a warm happy glow in his chest. Finally, something that his partially-defective wand wasn't going to mess up for him. Something he could just do well.

"Keep flying like that and next year, between the two of us, we'll have the Quidditch Cup in the vault!"

Blaise snorted softly, but Harry ignored him. Blaise was never impressed by anything or anyone, and seemed perfectly disdainful of everyone he met. It was something that Harry was confused by, but also envied. Blaise was immune to any intrigue or plotting, any relationship failure or betrayal, simply by not caring.

Harry was actually a little envious of how untouchable Blaise seemed, but it wouldn't do to let him see it. Being a Slytherin was about watching and knowing, but not sharing. And Harry was actually quite good at that. He may not understand much of what he observed, but he could hold his silence.

He had a lot of practice at keeping secrets.

Harry had once, in his youth, made the innocent mistake of repeating some of Aunt Petunia's dinnertime gossip to another boy at school. Word had spread back to his family and Harry - instead of becoming respected for his knowledge - had been punished soundly by his uncle and commanded never to be so presumptuous again. What his aunt had said belonged to her, not to him. Aunt Petunia, meanwhile, had looked down at him as though he'd done her a grave personal insult, and her interactions with him were curt and cold for the next month.

Between Dudley's gang, his uncle's glowers, and his aunt's cold rejection, Harry had quickly learned not to tell anyone outside the family anything. And since he couldn't precisely tell anyone _inside_ the family anything either, he merely confided in his snakes. They came and went, seemingly unstoppable in their ability to seek him out, and that meant there was usually someone new each week or two to whom Harry could confide.

It had been strangely comforting, knowing that the individual he'd spoken to - though he hadn't then known that they could have conversed properly - might never cross his path again.

Now, though, he had Pansy. And, perhaps, he had Draco? Since their flying lesson, the Malfoy heir had seemed much less formal around Harry, more inclined to treat him as one of the group.

Draco already had an established band of followers, of course. Vincent, Gregory, and Roy formed the most dedicated core, while Byron and Theodore were less devoted but still clearly in Draco's orbit.

Harry was surprised by how clear it all seemed, now that he'd had Pansy explain it all. Now that he knew, it was so obvious. Roy Pike, the sole half-blood in the group, was just trying to get in good with a bunch of purebloods, while Byron Miller and Theodore Nott were well off themselves and planning on long-term alliances with the Malfoys.

Vincent and Gregory were their own thing, though Harry wasn't entirely sure what that thing was. Neither was Pansy, despite growing up just down the street from the Crabbe family. Whatever their actual arrangement, though, they'd been completely devoted to Draco since the day they'd boarded the train together.

If it weren't such a ridiculous notion, Harry would have thought they acted like Draco's bodyguards. But surely no one would hire a pair of eleven-year-olds, no matter how bulky they may be. And especially since Gregory's intelligence seemed somewhere in the vicinity of a troll's. Vincent was a bit better, though he had a severely limited vocabulary and seemed incapable of reading basic instructions. The pair of them had caused nearly as many disasters in Potions as the Gryffindors put together.

* * *

The girls had long since left the Great Hall by the time Harry and the other first year boys finally finished laughing and eating and bantering about their flight. Harry was surprised at how natural it felt, being a part of a group like that. Normally, he'd have sat awkwardly to the side unsure of how to begin. But the flying seemed somehow to have cracked whatever barrier kept him apart from the others, and now it was together with Draco and the group that he walked into the common room, tired but happy.

The first thing Harry noticed was Pansy and her friends, huddled close around a fourth-year girl. They were staring at something, pointing and gesturing while they spoke in rapid hushed voices, and Harry saw several other groups of students around the common room also speaking eagerly or seeming agitated or excited.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, approaching Pansy.

"Gringotts and Endless Branching were broken into last night," Pansy said, motioning him forward. He squeezed in beside her to read the article.

 _"Ha ha! Joke's on them," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this morning. "Only reason they got into that vault was because it was a closed account, completely empty. I suppose it's impressive they got down there at all, but if it had been an active vault they'd be dead now."_  
 _The report coincides with news of a similar break-in at Endless Branching, taking place at nearly the same time the previous night._  
 _"Our records are stored in secondary locations as well as the Diagon office," said a spokesdwarf. "As only a single year's records were disturbed, we will simply check every record and verify their integrity. If anything is missing, it will be replaced. This will not disrupt our services in any way."_  
 _Endless Branching refused to divulge which year's records had been invaded, but it was strongly implied to have been recent. "We generally only keep about twenty years worth of files on-site," said an inside source._  
 _These two break-ins will surely bring Ministry scrutiny to the lax security in Diagon Alley._

"What's Endless Branching?" Harry asked.

"It's the official bloodline and lineage office," Pansy explained. "The dwarfs have been keeping genealogies for centuries. If someone tried to tamper with their records, that's _huge_. Used to be people would edit their family trees according to their whim, but in the past century the dwarfs have really started increasing security. Like the article says, they keep extra copies of all the records, store things in undisclosed locations and only bring them out to their main offices on certain occasions, etcetera."

"Someone's trying to fake being pureblood?" Harry asked. He couldn't think of any other reason to break into a genealogy office.

"Apparently," Pansy said, but she frowned. "It seems a bit much, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted.

The fourth-year girl whose name Harry didn't know spoke up. "If it weren't for the fact that the goblins and dwarfs can't stand each other, I'd say one of the break-ins was meant as a diversion. But the locations are far enough apart, there's no reason for them to be broken into at the same time. Security precautions are different, there's no benefit."

Harry wished he knew more about how life in the wizard world played out, he wanted to figure out the solution to this mystery, but without sufficient background knowledge he wouldn't have the framework to puzzle it out properly.

"Perhaps they were both done by the same people anyway?" he guessed. "It's possible that they just wanted to get both their robbery attempts done at once before any security increases that may result from their first."

Pansy nodded, tapping the paper thoughtfully. "That could be," she conceded.

"But breaking into an empty vault?" Mildred scoffed. "For what possible reason?"

Harry shrugged. "No clue. I don't think we have enough information just from this to solve anything."

"Ooh, Harry, are you planning to solve it?" Tracey cut in with her usual lack of tact. "Do you need an assistant?"

"He doesn't need _you_ as an assistant," Pansy said.

The fourth-year stood and held out her hand. Pansy passed the newspaper to her. "Thanks, Phyl."

"Any time, Pans." Phyl folded the paper carelessly and walked toward the dormitories.

Pansy slid over into the vacated space so Harry would be less squashed, her mind clearly still on what they'd read. "But to break into _Gringotts_! That's never been done before. Never. The goblins may act all casual about it, but it's a huge huge deal. I wouldn't be surprised if they increase security by a lot after this."

"Intruders trigger all sorts of nasty charms and hexes." Mildred said. "Only a customer could get down to the vaults at all. Which makes you wonder if the goblins have their suspects already, and are just being cagey about it."

"That's right, they keep records of everyone going in and out," Pansy said.

"They would be able to find out everyone who'd entered around the time of the break-in," Tracey said excitedly.

"Are they even open at night?" Harry asked. He'd only been to the goblin-run bank once, when shopping with Professor Quirrell, and that had been during the day. But most shops closed at night, at least in the muggle world, and he doubted wizards were much different.

"Gringotts never closes," Pansy said. "It's part of their contract. They get a complete monopoly as a financial institution, but they're not permitted to be unavailable any time a witch or wizard may need access to their possessions."

"The number of goblin 'holidays' they tried to get off for is unbelievable," Millicent said. "They'd only be open a handful of days a year if they weren't bound by the restrictions of the treaty of something or other. I forget the details."

"But not many people are out shopping that time of night, would they?" Harry asked.

"Sure they would," Millicent said. "Lots of the Knockturn or Voke crowd come out at night. A few from Idee too I suppose."

"Idee Alley is boring," Tracey said at once. "I prefer Radick. Or Optim."

"Optim isn't a real street," Daphne said, glancing up from her own book for the first time. "It's just a destination. No one _lives_ there."

Harry was quite lost by this discussion, but didn't want to interrupt to demand answers. From there, the topic quickly wandered to other destinations the girls enjoyed visiting, and the break-ins were soon forgotten.

Harry didn't forget. He paid less and less attention as the girls continued, becoming increasingly absorbed in his own thoughts. He had the strangest certainty that this couldn't be a coincidence. He wasn't sure what, how, or why, but somehow there was a connection - maybe one he hadn't even found yet. But something at the back of his thoughts, something he couldn't quite pin down, made him want very much to solve this.

It would be quite a while before he made any progress.

* * *

The first weeks of potions class were spent working on a simple cure for boils during the extra-long practical lessons - apparently boils were a side-effect to so many failed spells that it was considered an essential part of all wizards' repertoire to be able to whip up the cure.

The assigned homework covered the basic theory of potion making, forcing them to consider how and why the ingredients and accompanying magic were used in the way they had been.

Aside from Hermione, Harry, and Draco, no one did particularly well. Snape's teaching method was quite hands-off, requiring actual attention and effort from the students, and Potions was no one's favourite subject. While in most other classes a failed transfiguration or faulty charm could be annoying, in potions there was a much higher chance of things exploding.

In practical magic lessons, both the standard curriculum and his private sessions with Professor Quirrell, Harry discovered he had a good ear for spell flow. Within the first month he began intuiting the proper pronunciations to charms and spells without needing a guide. Pansy had a harder time. She seemed to have been practicing ahead on her own, but unlike Draco she'd learned to pronounce the spells incorrectly, and Harry often had to carefully coach her through it.

Wandwork remained Harry's absolute nemesis. Both _lumos_ and _lumonitio_ had very simple - and very _forgiving -_ wand motions. Not so with the charms they were studying in Professor Flitwick's class. Despite his knack for incantations, Harry remained consistently in the bottom third of the class in practicals.

They officially learned _lumos_ in both Defence and Charms, it being another basic essential that no wizard should be without. While Quirrell taught them the general 'finite' incantation, Flitwick demonstrated the counter-charm 'nox' to specifically deactivate magical lights.

When Harry asked about it in his next private training session with Quirrell, the professor smiled and said it was a very astute question.

"Counter-charms, counter-curses - they have a particular strength against what they are intended to combat. Finite puts your strength directly in opposition to the spell itself, whatever its origin, and doesn't even try to find an alternative route. If you were trying to extinguish a light placed by another wizard, 'nox' would be a better choice to save your own strength. With a spell you yourself cast, it doesn't matter."

"Why didn't you show us 'nox' then?" Harry asked. "If it would be better."

Quirrell watched him, his fingers habitually turning the heavy gold ring around his finger as usual. "Because, 'finite' is a very useful, very general sort of thing everyone should know. The amount of strength saved is negligible, since no one puts enough energy into a light that extinguishing it is any strain whatsoever. And, specifically, why would you ever need to extinguish someone else's light? Lumos and its variants are hardly Dark magic. In fact, light alone is enough to drive away several minor sorts of Dark creatures."

"I noticed you don't wear that ring during classes." Harry said, his attention caught by the large green stone. "And why do you insist on using that old wand that doesn't work as well?"

Quirrell's smile grew sly. "There are certain stigmas attached to certain objects, which it would be wise to distance myself from," he said carefully. "There are those who would recognize my wand, my ring, and their origins are not. . ." he hesitated. "I deal in _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , Harry. Some of my most treasured possessions were formerly in the possession of some very evil wizards. And I would rather not have people associate myself with them."

"But you don't mind me seeing them," Harry said.

"You grew up in the muggle world, you did not live through the terrors of Grindelwald or remember the struggle against Lord Voldemort. You have no prior associations whatsoever. And, you and I share a singular stigma of our own. I trust you to keep my secrets. As I hope you would trust me to keep yours."

Harry nodded. "About that, Professor. I've been meaning to ask you, you mentioned during the summer that some families would support me more knowing about. . . " he lowered his voice to a whisper, a hiss, " _that_. Is there anyone I should tell?"

Quirrell considered a moment, twisting the ring around and around. Harry could almost imagine that the snakes wrought upon it were simply chasing one another around, that they were alive.

"Traditionally, the Malfoy family would be a loyal one. Greengrass, perhaps. Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, not the brightest. They would respect you, but may not be able to keep their mouths shut in front of others. Avery, but none of their children are here at present. The Selwyn heir won't be around another year yet at least. Black, Lestrange, I don't know if there are any survivors of those houses. They were unfortunate supporters of Lord Voldemort."

Quirrell sighed. "Lord Voldemort was the other Heir, you know. Did no good for the reputation of our house."

"But you're a Ravenclaw," Harry said, not remarking on the revelation. Lord Voldemort being a parselmouth didn't surprise him at all. It felt almost inevitable, and certainly could have been what caused a general distrust of those with the ability.

"Perhaps," the professor replied mildly. "But my loyalty has always been true, to my noble and pureblood ancestry, through my mother. My father was worthless. You'll not find. . . _Quirrell_ on any ancient tapestries."

"It must have been hard in school," Harry said.

Quirrell smiled, a crooked smile. "No, I was quite successful in collecting everyone I wished for followers. My academic successes were secondary accomplishments."

He stood, the sudden motion startling Harry. "You, on the other hand, seem to be making _no_ progress toward either academic achievement or gathering allies. From what I've seen, you have refused every attempt to curry favour from your lessers, put off every alliance offer from your equals, and seem inclined to ignore anyone and everyone but Miss Parkinson."

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what I'm doing, and if I tried to make friends with any of them they would see it. Pansy doesn't mind, because she's not very good at magic and we can help each other, but it's so intimidating. You told me our house isn't forgiving of weakness, and right now I have no idea how to be anything else."

He'd remained on the very fringes of Draco's group; normally after flying lessons he'd hang around with them for a few hours, but they'd gravitate into their own huddle and he'd naturally wander to wherever Pansy was. He could hardly claim that as great progress.

Harry didn't know how to integrate himself more fully, nor did he particularly wish to. Roy and his blatant toadying, Gregory and Vincent's silent obsession, none of it seemed particularly to Harry's liking. He much preferred to emulate Blaise's air of unconcern.

"Your attempts at remaining mysterious and avoiding the mundane are admirable in concept, but people will be watching and judging in every class, in every corridor. You cannot hide yourself from them, and they will come to their own ideas about you if you do not direct them first."

"Everyone _already_ has ideas about me," Harry said, annoyed. "Gryffindors think I betrayed them or something, Ravenclaw seem to think I'm going to be evil, Hufflepuff want to redeem me, and my own house can probably see clearly that I'm useless."

"You are not useless," Quirrell said firmly. "You're already performing better in class than many born higher than yourself, despite growing up with muggles and knowing nothing of your true nature. Your reputation may be exaggerated, but your strength and skill are not. I have seen the determination with which you practice, do not think so little of yourself. With a little more time and direction, you could become truly great."

They spent the remainder of the lesson practicing a variety of small useful spells which Quirrell said no wizard should be without, yet were not taught in the Ministry-approved curriculum until higher years: _stupefy_ , the stunning hex, and its counter-hex _innervate_ ; _aguamenti_ and _incendio_ , for creating water and fire respectively; _accio_ , the summoning charm. And continued practicing aim with the much less magically tiring _lumonitio_.

Harry had yet to successfully cast any of the new spells, but they practiced them all every time. Professor Quirrell insisted that he need only continue practicing and the spells would come to him. They met once or twice a week, usually early in the morning, though the professor warned that their appointments would become less frequent as exams approached and more upper years needed extra help.

No one ever signed on to teach Defence more than a single year nowadays, and Quirrell considered it all but a sacred duty to see that as many as could be were trained properly in that time.

Harry couldn't quite find the courage to question it aloud, but he privately wondered _why_ , if Quirrell was so determined to help all the students, he gave such useless textbook lessons. He could just as easily be teaching all the first years the same spells he showed Harry.

Was the Ministry of Magic so incompetent that it really required teaching such sub-standard texts? Or was Harry actually something _special_?

He found that hard to believe, despite Quirrell's continued insistence. If Hermione Granger could beat the _boy-who-lived_ at every subject despite her lowly heritage, and he was truly something exceptional, then how badly off were all the _rest_ of the students?

Harry added the puzzle to the back of his mind to contemplate without really expecting an answer. This was Hogwarts, after all, where magic was a mundane everyday occurrence. Some mysteries were not meant to be solved.

Particularly not right before Quidditch season began.

* * *

 _Author's Notes :_

 _I'm back! For those of you following only this story, I have completed my first project - KotOR fic Fall With Me, which I put everything else on hold to finish. This series, Heir of Darkness, as my second major project has therefore been moved up into first priority. I plan to resume updating at least once a month, preferably biweekly but we'll have to see. _

_I've finished with a lot of the easy buildup now, characters are basically established and it's time for things to start moving in earnest. Since there are several story threads I need to start foreshadowing, some for Shadow of the Past itself, others for the series as a whole, I have to take a more considered approach as we move through the year at Hogwarts._

 _Thank you for your patience! Barring unforeseen complications, updates should be much more regular from here on out._


	22. Connections

_Connections_

* * *

By the end of Harry's first month at Hogwarts, he felt he knew the castle inside and out. It had quirks, it still surprised him on a regular basis, but he no longer got lost trying to find the Transfiguration corridor from the dungeons or getting to lunch after Charms.

Harry and Pansy had made a game of finding their way through the castle to class, starting off in opposite directions and racing to see who reached the next destination first. Or who could use the most secret passages, or go the farthest distance and still arrive on time. They got a lot of odd looks, but Harry was confident that the pair of them knew more about the castle layout than anyone else in their year.

If one set of stairs were acting up he knew closets or tunnels or hidden stairs to bypass to any given floor, though once he had to cross the castle three times to reach the Potions dungeon on his way down as the stairs were in a singularly unhelpful alignment. He'd started to sense the flow of the castle, the way it moved made sense to him in the same way that spell incantations did, or the order in which potions ingredients were added.

Partway through the fifth week of term, the Defence classroom moved itself away from the fourth floor, what was previously its door now opening onto a small cupboard instead.

Harry and Pansy looked at each other, then Harry felt himself breaking into a wide grin regardless of any attempts to suppress it.

"I bet I know where the classroom went," he said excitedly. The other first-year Slytherins were whispering among themselves, and Professor Quirrell was nowhere to be found.

"Alright, where?" Pansy asked.

"Second floor. And you know what else?" Harry couldn't even wait for her to ask, he was so excited by his deduction. "This closet was from the other end of that hall," he gestured behind them to where a hall led in one direction to a dead-end and in the other to a rickety old wooden staircase that creaked a different musical note on each step.

"So?" Pansy asked as Harry paused for breath.

Harry grinned. "So I bet that unused classroom, R-722, the one with the invisible floor that was giving everyone vertigo, is down that hall now. The second-floor classroom will be up on the seventh now, and Defence will be on the second."

Pansy snorted softly. "That's an awfully specific and convoluted explanation, Harry."

"I'll bet you three knuts that I'm right." Harry couldn't have explained why he knew how the rooms would have shifted, any more than he could have explained why the stars and moon moved the way they did and aligned just so, but he was sure of his deductions.

"If you're that certain, why not make it ten sickles?"

"Can you afford it?"

Pansy nodded, offering her hand. Harry shook it, then sprinted off down the hall.

"Wait!" Pansy called after him, but he just raced down the musical steps two at a time and skidded around the corner at the bottom. A group of Ravenclaw girls gave him a disapproving look as he slipped by them, but he ignored them.

He caught sight of a pale brown snake approaching slowly up the hall, and paused long enough to ask its permission to bring it with him, to which it agreed. _"Good, I'll have a message for you to deliver,"_ Harry hissed, and the snake lazily acquiesced.

Pansy caught up to him as he took off running again, the snake coiled around one arm.

"I just need to check something," Harry said, slowing as they neared the Charms corridor. He paused to open one door, only to close it hastily as he'd nearly walked in on Professor Flitwick's class. He opened the next door, which also opened onto the Charms class. Professor Flitwick gave Harry a brief reproving look, but didn't pause in his speech. Harry hastily closed that door too.

"What are you doing, interrupting classes?!" Pansy hissed.

"I just had to be sure. The connection is strongest between the second and third floor, so it might have changed the Charms classrooms. But I overheard a couple NEWT students debating it, and they said the rooms move less the longer the teacher has been here."

"So Defence," Pansy began slowly, and Harry nodded.

"Because it's Professor Quirrell's first year, his classroom doesn't have any reason to stay still for him."

"My mum says the castle just changes like it does because so many people have wanted it different over the years, the magic just seeped into the place," Pansy said. "One teacher wants a shortcut to their office, so the stairs swing around for them, one professor wants the classroom next to the privy so the rooms shift about, advanced students play pranks where walls pretend to be doors, and the walls just keep doing it. . . stuff like that."

"It doesn't matter _why_ the castle is the way it is," Harry said impatiently. He glared at the moving staircase; it was rotating toward them, but too slowly. He wanted to get to the second floor _now_.

"So where are we rushing off to?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said, still grinning. "And you're about to owe me ten sickles."

The stair finally arrived and Harry charged down it, Pansy right on his heels. They reached a stretch of little-used corridor containing several disused classrooms from back when Hogwarts had supported a significantly larger student body.

It made Harry quietly furious, thinking about how much Voldemort's war had cost the wizard world, and more than a little sad. But nothing could be done about it now.

He pushed the thought away and paused beside a fabmiliar-looking door. "Defence classroom, at your service."

He set down the snake. _"I need you to find the master-not-master and tell him to come here. Can you do that?"_

The snake flicked its tongue in an irritated gesture. _"With the utmost ease, large one. Be thankful I'm in a good mood today."_

Harry couldn't be offended. He still was exhilarated from his discovery.

"Thanks," he hissed, then turned back to Pansy.

"Want to go see the dragon?"

Pansy deadpanned. "What?"

"The _dragon_ ," Harry repeated. "Professor Quirrell won't be here for several minutes. There's time to check out the old cupboard."

"Harry, I'm glad that you found our classroom and all, but you're just talking nonsense now."

Harry smirked at her. "Come on, Pansy. You're smarter than that. Remember what we were talking about? The way I said the rooms had moved?"

Pansy sighed. "Ye-ess?"

"Where did the room that was here go?"

"The seventh floor, _if_ you were right."

"Which means room R-722. . ." Harry prompted.

". . . would be at the end of that hall, where the closet that's now in the Defence classroom's spot was?" Pansy said, sounding confused.

"And what's unique about R-722?" Harry asked.

Pansy thought a moment, then gasped aloud as she got it. "Its _invisible floor!_ The third floor is where the dragon is, down the corridor just underneath where that closet was. So if R-722 is down that hall on the fourth floor now—"

"We'll be able to look down and see the dragon safely, without sneaking in at the risk of death!" Harry finished.

Pansy glanced around the deserted, dusty hall. "Yeah, let's go!"

They only made it halfway before all but running into Professor Quirrell, on his way down with the rest of the class in tow.

"Thanks, Harry," he whispered, winking. Harry nodded back, and he and Pansy rejoined the group as they trouped down to the second floor. There wasn't time to visit R-722 just yet, but the thought of seeing a real live dragon kept Harry distracted all through the class.

Though shorter than usual due to the missing classroom, the lesson seemed interminable. Professor Quirrell was demonstrating - or trying to - a spell which produced small electric green sparks which could be used defencively, offensively, or as a signal. He'd never mentioned it in Harry's private sessions, so he assumed it to be Ministry-mandated foolishness, and didn't even try to pay attention.

All he could think about was the dragon.

The moment class ended, he and Pansy grabbed their bags and charged off. They'd done this often enough that no one commented on it, at least not before they were out of earshot. Harry led the way up two flights of stairs and down another, through a tapestry concealing a secret passage, and finally up the rickety steps. The creaking notes rang out discordantly as Harry and Pansy ran up them.

"Moment of truth," Pansy said excitedly as they reached the door at the far end of the hall.

"It says R-722," Harry said gleefully, and pushed the door open.

He saw at once why the classroom had been discontinued. It looked like thin air, a few desks and chairs floating unmoving upon no surface at all. He tentatively put one foot out, but the floor was as solid as any he'd encountered.

Pansy stepped gingerly after him. Then Harry looked down past the lack of floor and at the most terrifying, majestic sight of his life.

The dragon was huge, its room much larger than the classroom above. It lay sprawled on its side far below them, a deep purring growl causing the invisible floor to tremble.

The scales were dark and glossy, shimmering in the torchlight, glinting in golden brown or deep red-black as the beast breathed.

Harry stared down at it, speechless with awe. He'd seen magic, met goblins, and turned a salt-cellar into a chickadee, but this was something else completely. Nothing he'd ever seen, nothing he'd ever _imagined_ , could compare.

Wordlessly, Pansy passed over ten sickles, one by one. Harry absently shoved them in his pocket, entranced by the quiet shifting of powerful muscles, the perpetual movement of the flicking tail that set light to glinting off the walls and ceiling.

Once, the dragon turned over in its sleep, rearing half up to standing and flaring its wings to such a span that Harry flinched back. Then it tucked them back in behind itself, lying back down at a slightly different angle, and resumed its deep rhythmic breathing.

Neither Harry nor Pansy were on time for lunch that day.

* * *

Despite his less than stellar wandwork, Harry settled comfortably into the top half of the class. Draco consistently out-performed him, as did a handful of Ravenclaws - and of course Hermione Granger - but Harry was driven by his desire to learn everything he could about how to control his magic. Being able to sense the flow of magic beyond just incantations was starting to pay off, allowing his intuitive jumps to come to correct conclusions almost as often as not.

It made writing homework scrolls easier, though every time he had to strain to remember who had made which important magical discovery he wished Binns wasn't quite so hard to listen to. He knew that he was missing a lot of important information in History of Magic lectures simply because their ghost-teacher's voice made for such soothing background noise to his thoughts.

With the History classes always either right after lunch or at the end of the day, it tended to be more an exercise in falling asleep subtly enough not to be caught for most students. Harry, despite his best efforts to the contrary, usually ended up in a half-awake state of drifting daydreams.

He spent more time staring at the architecture of the huge lecture hall than paying attention, simply because Binns' voice was perfectly and exactly pitched for calming background noise. And _lulling_. Staying awake _was_ a struggle. Harry occasionally tried to study his books on his own during the class, but Binns was just relevant enough to be completely confusing and attempting it usually resulted in getting dates and names hopelessly confused with each other.

The one good thing about the ghost teacher's lethargy-inducing teaching was that, though History of Magic was the one class attended simultaneously by the entire year from all four houses, with everyone busy sleeping there was little chance of the shouting matches that usually occurred when Pansy and Hermione were in the same room. Or Weasley and Draco, or any number of house-based rivalries farther away from Harry's personal sphere of acquaintances.

Harry's general avoidance of everyone except Pansy and her friends had cemented his reputation by now. The whispers and rumors had died down simply because he wasn't interesting any longer and there were new things to talk about other than that the boy-who-lived was a Slytherin.

The vast majority of the students had just accepted that Harry Potter wasn't interested in interacting with people - some attributed it to aloofness, that he considered them all unworthy of his company, while others whispered darkly that he simply hated wizards and would rise up to destroy them all one day.

A few, though, still stubbornly considered Harry some sort of traitor to their cause. Not a week went by but that some Gryffindor or Hufflepuff jostled him or hissed at him or 'accidentally' tripped him in the hall.

Harry tended to ignore the events as laughable, and thankfully infrequent despite their regularity. Compared to his treatment at primary school by Dudley's gang, these wizards were pathetic pretenders. Pansy, though, took the incidents quite personally and ended up in more than one yelling match with those from the offending houses.

She would fume for hours afterward, and though Harry did his best to calm her he was secretly pleased that she cared so much. Though it did make him worry about her.

They looked up a few common low-level jinxes as independent study after learning about the counter-jinxes in Defence, and then some more interesting ones once they found the right books.

Thanks to Quirrell's private lessons Harry's magical strength was marginally greater than most first-years, and Harry made sure everyone knew it. He never threw the first spell, but if anyone targeted Pansy he did not hold back.

Unfortunately, his uncooperative wand made his spell strength moderately irrelevant as he tended to fail spells at least as often as they succeeded, even in the rare events where he actually got the wand movements correctly.

The best defence would be proving to everyone that they couldn't afford to take him lightly, so he didn't let such obstacles discourage him. They only fueled his determination to succeed. And if his first and second hexes didn't work, well, his third or fourth would and they would hit _hard_.

And that's how he ended up in Snape's study for the fifth time, on Thursday the seventeenth of October, having become engaged in a scuffle with Gryffindors immediately following their weekly flying lessons.

* * *

"Detention _again_ , Mr. Potter?" Their head of house seemed resigned. "Must I remind you again that we are _not_ Gryffindors to go throwing ourselves recklessly at any target we see?"

"I was only protecting myself and my friend, sir," Harry said firmly. "Slytherins stick together, and _they_ came after _us_."

"Yet dueling in the corridors is against school rules, Mr. Potter. If you did not retaliate, and simply reported them to me or another teacher, you would not be in this situation."

Harry met Snape's eyes firmly. "I will not back down and let them think me weak, Professor Snape. I am a wizard, not a muggle, and I _will_ use my power to protect myself and my friend."

"And getting detentions along with your adversaries demonstrates what, exactly?" Snape asked. "They know how to get at you. _They_ know how to manipulate _you_. Or aren't you paying attention? What does it matter to them their own detentions, when they know they're dragging you down with them. And you are _letting them_."

"Only until I can show them that crossing me isn't worth the gain," Harry replied. "I just don't know the right spells, or I don't have the power to cast them. Yet."

"More _blunt force_ is rarely the answer. You are changing, Harry Potter. And not, I think, for the better." Snape watched Harry a moment, then picked up his quill and began writing in his log. "You'll be serving your detention with me, Saturday morning, nine o'clock. Send in Miss Parkinson on your way out."

* * *

"I can't believe he split us up again," Pansy fumed. "Sending me to help _Hagrid_ with the acromantulae? That half-breed oaf should just exterminate the lot of them, what is he keeping them around for?"

"Acromantula venom is used in several advanced potions," Harry said. "It's useful to have a nest of them around, but they need to be corralled properly. I'm surprised he'd use students, though, especially first years."

Pansy continued ranting, diverted but not defused. "And me, paired with that foul lout of a blood traitor. Where did Weasley learn to cast actual magic, anyway? His father's too busy looking after muggles, must be those _brothers_ of his."

"The twins aren't so bad," Harry said. While Ron Weasley was one of those who seemed to be personally affronted by whatever symbolic gesture Harry had made by taking so long under the hat and ending up in Slytherin house, his brothers had never really taken sides in the matter. They stayed mostly out of it, from what Harry had seen, and even seemed occasionally to be more on Harry's side of things, albeit quietly.

"I'm surprised he could afford coursebooks at all, even if half of them are handed down," Pansy said venomously. "I'd challenge him to a proper duel this instant if I could."

Harry snickered. "You think he'd really accept?"

Pansy gave a derisive snort. "He fell for Draco's little trick _twice_. He's a real bludgerbrain that one."

"But he is pureblood," Harry said. He smiled and added slyly, because he knew it would annoy her, "You could do worse."

"Harry Potter, you take that back right now," Pansy hissed, apparently not in the mood for levity.

"You could also do better," Harry acquiesced. "Quite easily."

"Acromantulae," she said again, kicking at the ground.

"You know, I think I heard that Ron Weasley is terrified of spiders," Harry remarked.

Pansy stopped walking, a slow smile crossing her face. "Oh? How fortunate."

They walked in silence for a time, the mood partly recovered.

"Everyone's talking about that empty classroom with the invisible floor," Harry pointed out as they walked down the marble stair in the center of the entrance hall.

Pansy turned as they reached the courtyard, gave a dazzlingly ridiculous smile. "Oh, I know. Who do you think told them?"

She reached into her pocket with a jingling sound which suggested a considerable number of coins.

"Pansy, did you _sell_ information about that classroom?"

"Of course. We wouldn't want to horde such valuable knowledge, but there is something to be said for exclusivity. I couldn't give _everyone_ the secret, they had to have some advantage over the others."

"How exclusive are we talking here?" Harry asked.

"Oh, about thirty or so students besides you and I. Want to go back and watch? They probably have a class in and we have a free period."

Harry shook his head. "I need to move."

Pansy nodded, and they made their way to the lakeside.

Harry had taken to running back and forth in front of it, to work off his constant energy excess. He knew it was probably bad exercise practice, suspected that he should do warmups or stretches of some sort, but he didn't know how and the wizard world was not the best for physical education.

Pansy watched with her faintly amused expression, one that on anyone else would be accompanied by a toss of her hair and a muttered 'boys'. Harry raced across the yard, tapping each tree he came to, weaving around and between them, then back again.

Harry returned, grinning and breathless. "Do you want to practice our spells first," he asked eagerly, "or do the written work?"

"Spells," Pansy said, a glint in her eyes. "Definitely spells."

Harry found his usual position at one end of their usual glade of small trees, while Pansy took her own. They had developed the practice game over the past weeks, incorporating each new class's practicals into it.

It had started near the very beginning of term, when Harry showed Pansy _lumonitio_ and she in turn had shared her _tardo_ jinx - a simple spell which slowed the movement of its target for a few seconds. Neither of them knew more spells than those, but that was quite enough for the pair to get on with.

At first they'd started off tagging tree-trunks, then each other, then selecting targets worth points and adding complex rules for what order and how frequently each spell could be used.

Harry's wand worked unreliably and Pansy's pronunciation had been sloppy, leading to a roughly even match. By now, with the addition of a half-dozen jinxes (and their appropriate counters) and nearly as many charms, the practice game was an unwieldy thing that would have taken longer to explain to anyone than it did to play.

Any bugs or animals that entered the practice area became transfiguration targets. Bonus points were awarded for complex transformations, for casting while moving, or hexing your opponent while they were moving.

Points had to be taken in sequence, moving from one target to another, and were scored higher for switching quickly between targets. Certain sequences, certain designated areas on either the opponent or the trees and rocks around, netted you bonus score as well.

And, of course, blocking a jinx (which happened quite infrequently, spells flew fairly fast and neither Harry nor Pansy were that quick yet) or enacting successfully the newest charms or spells counted double.

It wasn't the most effective way to learn, perhaps, but Harry thought it was certainly the most fun. As it mostly involved the pair of them running and dodging, failing to cast spells and laughing at themselves and each other, it almost never failed to work through whatever Pansy was annoyed about and cheer them both up.

"You know, we could start our own club," Harry said once they were worn out enough to call a break.

Neither had successfully cast Quirrell's green spark spell yet, but Harry had managed to transfigure a tortoise that wandered into their practice area into an only slightly turtle-patterned dinnerplate. Granted, the tortoise hadn't been moving very quickly, but he was quite proud of that transfiguration. They'd both agreed it was worth several extra points.

Harry flipped the plate between his hands as he warmed to the idea. "I'm sure everyone else is bored silly trying to practice spells by repetition in the library."

"We'd need to be at least third year and have permission to form group," Pansy said.

Harry leaned back and grinned at her. "Finally given up on my making alliances?"

"Never," Pansy said. "You should talk to Draco again, I'm sure that now he sees you're making so much progress in class you could be friends. It would benefit you both."

"It is nice with just the two of us, I suppose," Harry said, deliberately ignoring her advice. "If we invited too many people things could get crowded and annoying pretty quickly."

He still owed Draco an unspecified favour, and wasn't keen to offer him chances to earn more. Though they got along fine during and after Flying lessons, Draco had his own group of friends and Harry wasn't comfortable enough with them to approach the group under other circumstances.

Pansy shot him with her slowing jinx. He lazily tried to dodge, not quite evading the spell.

"Yo-u nev-er told me the coun-ter-jinx for that one," Harry said, his words prolonged weirdly by the jinx.

"I know," Pansy said with mock sweetness. "That's rather the idea."

"I do-n't min-d," Harry said. "Bu-t you rea-lize this means I'll have to hunt down a new jinx and not tell _you_ the counter." The weak spell wore off as he was talking, and he grinned up at Pansy. "We should probably get in to dinner, or we'll miss all the good stuff."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Potter," Pansy said with exaggerated aloofness. "Dessert _is_ the good stuff."


	23. Detentions and Unicorns

_Detentions and Unicorns_

* * *

"Weasley is _such_ a boor," Pansy complained, as Harry walked her down to their common room. She'd just returned from her detention, which had apparently gone about as well as could be expected. "He spent half the time talking with the giant, and the other half acting the coward."

Then she grinned and spun in a little circle. "But I saw what he didn't! There was a _unicorn_ watching us from the forest! I know it's what I saw, even if neither of them saw it. She was white and glowing. . . almost. So beautiful."

"You actually saw a unicorn?" Harry felt a little envious now. Unicorns were creatures of beauty and purity. If one had been willing to show itself to Pansy, she was incredibly lucky.

"I didn't see her closely. Mostly just a flash of white through the trees. But what else could it have been?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know of any other creatures that would glow white in the night and live in a forest." He paused by the wall. "Ouroboros Eterna."

Pansy preceded him into the common room as the wall opened. Harry followed. "She wasn't _really_ glowing," she said, "but she was so bright she may as well have been."

"Who was glowing?" Reiko asked, overhearing.

"I saw a unicorn in the forest!"

"Really? I didn't know there were unicorns around here." Reiko's voice shifted from skepticism to excitement in a moment. "Do you think we would see one if we went out some night?"

Pansy grinned. "Want to go try and find one?"

"Not tonight," Reiko said, yawning, her tone regretful. "I need to finish this." She held up a page of parchment with only a few lines written on it.

"Another night, of course," Pansy said.

Harry had been hoping to talk to Pansy more that night, but now his chance was gone. Milicent and Mildred jumped up when they saw Pansy and Reiko, and Pansy began recounting the tale again with more embellishments.

It was late, anyway. He'd stayed up to escort her back, and that was done. He let the girls go giggling off to their own dorm, trudging wearily up the steps to his own.

Draco and Shawn, Harry's other roommate aside from Draco and his two friends, sat together on Shawn's bed and were speaking in low tones when Harry entered. When they saw him, they quickly changed the subject and began a slightly too loud discussion of Quidditch.

Harry sighed, pointedly ignored them, and went about preparing for bed as though he hadn't seen or heard anything.

* * *

It was with considerable trepidation that Harry approached Professor Snape's office on Saturday for his own detention. His interactions thus far with his head-of-house had been far from inspiring. Professor Snape seemed happiest ignoring Harry's existence completely.

"On time," Professor Snape said as Harry knocked and entered. "That's one point to your favour."

"I try," Harry said, still a little uneasy.

"Oh, relax, I'm not going to bite," Professor Snape snapped. "Sit down, Mr. Potter."

Harry did so.

"You have been becoming more and more reckless lately, seemingly due to the influence of Miss Parkinson. Your instincts for self-preservation seem to be dying as rapidly as any cunning you may once have possessed. Tell me, Mr. Potter. Do you enjoy knowing that your adversaries are being punished as well as yourself? Does it help relieve your own suffering to know it is being inflicted on others as well?"

"No, sir," Harry replied, somewhat mystified. He didn't see where this conversation could be going.

"No," Professor Snape purred. "And yet, you consistently don't seem to care about your own detentions or other punishments, preferring to rush headlong into any situation without thought? In your first weeks here, it took very little for you to take the discrete course of retreat. Now, you seem never to allow a chance at fighting to pass."

Harry's hand gripped his wand, a now-unconscious gesture.

"I won't let them see me as weak, professor," he said, quietly. "I won't _be_ weak. This is my chance to start over. My _one chance_ at making a better life. I won't let that go. And I won't let them hurt Pansy either. No matter what."

"Determination and stupidity are too often seen together," Professor Snape said wryly. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather transfer to Gryffindor? They celebrate such idiocy on a regular basis."

"No, sir. I'm not ashamed of my house."

"But are you sure your house won't be ashamed of you?" Professor Snape paced closer, looming over Harry. "Not everyone to be sorted into a house truly belongs there. You've thus far done little to prove your value to House Slytherin. Is this all you have to offer?"

"I will become powerful," Harry said. It grew increasingly hard not to look away or let his voice shake, as Professor Snape clearly showed his displeasure. "I'll be strong enough to protect myself, my friends, and destroy my enemies. I'll learn how to strike, and when. You don't have to worry about me."

"Oh, trust me, Mr. Potter. I do not _worry_. But as your head of house, I feel it my duty to offer you some advice and perspective. You ought to take it to heart. There are few things Slytherin house truly cannot abide, but if you continue as you have been you may be able to discover them all."

"I don't want to be weak _or_ cowardly, sir."

Professor Snape regarded him coldly. "Then you should take more care to what you are doing and less to reacting against the slightest provocation. You do not see Mr. Malfoy beginning quarrels with every Gryffindor fool he comes across, do you? You do not see Miss Greengrass fighting with Ravenclaws in the halls. You and Miss Parkinson are a bad influence on each other. I highly suggest that you consider expanding your circle of acquaintances to include more than one rather uncouth halfblood."

"I'm halfblood," Harry said quietly. "She's one of the only ones willing to give me a chance."

"And that excuses your behavior toward the other houses? We have a reputation to uphold, a House Cup to maintain control over, and a point to prove. Mr. Potter, your behavior reflects poorly on all of Slytherin. If you do not yet have enemies within it, continue on as you have been and you surely will find yourself obtaining some."

"I don't want to make enemies! I'm just defending our house's honour."

"A Gryffindor's excuse if ever I heard one. Fighting, in public, in front of witnesses, is _not_ the correct answer." Professor Snape seemed to grow more irritated by the moment. "You are an absolute fool if you believe that such demonstrations will improve anything, either within the house or outside it. Do none of you children stop to consider the longer term consequences of your actions? The feuds that you begin now will haunt you for the rest of your lives. The allies and enemies of your entire future are built upon these years."

"I won't just stand by and let them be mean to Pansy," Harry insisted, though he nearly quailed under the glower Professor Snape leveled at him. "You can't convince me to abandon her, sir," he added, his voice faint.

"I do not wish you to _abandon_ anyone, Mr. Potter. Merely to give some thought to your choices, and to be more cautious in your acquaintances."

"I'm nothing but cautious," Harry muttered, beginning to hate himself again.

"Speak up," Professor Snape snapped.

"If I didn't stand up for Pansy, I wouldn't do _anything_." Harry snapped. "I'm trying as hard as I can to be more active, to not just cower and hide from confrontation." His voice wavered unsteadily. "I can't stop, sir. It would mean giving up."

"Your future hinges on your decisions now, Mr. Potter!"

"Which is why it's important that I stay strong to my convictions." Harry felt himself trembling. He wanted to sound defiant and confident. But he could feel tears threatening, aching in the back of his throat and the corners of his eyes.

"Your _convictions_ are exactly what your enemies will seek to exploit. If you do not change your behavior, there will be serious consequences. And I don't mean scrubbing the sixth floor invisible stairway, which is what you will spend the next three hours doing. This is not advice I offer lightly, Mr. Potter. I care a great deal for our house, and will not allow you to destroy it."

Harry couldn't speak. He knew if he opened his mouth he'd start crying, and that would be worse than pathetic. So he stared at the floor, trying to keep himself under control. It wasn't fair! Professor Snape was supposed to be on his side. Why was he trying to make Harry give up, right when he'd just started to stand up for himself?

Or, worse, was he right? Was giving up something Harry should consider? Maybe he was going about this all wrong?

No. Professor Snape just didn't understand.

"The bucket and scrubbing brushes are in the corner there. It's seven drops of solvent potion to a gallon of water. Get going."

Harry collected the bucket and brushes and fled.

* * *

Pansy found him an hour later. He'd finished crying, finished mentally raging, and now scrubbed with a dogged anger that simmered with all the memories of being forced into submission by the Dursleys.

He would not allow that to happen again. Not now that he had magic to protect himself with. Never again. He would show everyone, and he would show Professor Snape, and he would show the Gryffindors, and he'd show the Ravenclaws, and he'd show the _Hufflepuffs_ and he would absolutely show the Slytherins.

Precisely what he'd be showing them all, apart from his own strength and surety, wasn't important. He would be strong.

"Does anyone even use these stairs?" Pansy asked.

Harry shook his head. They were dusty, but not muddy or dirty. The dust was a greasy, sticking sort though, the kind that carried broken-down magic and who knew what all else. It didn't react well to attempts to _Scourgify_ it. It didn't come off at all without serious effort. And the thin film of slimy dust wasn't enough to make the transparent spiral stairway safe to traverse. Even if it was slightly visible, it was slippery.

Harry himself had almost slipped and fallen twice so far, and he was crawling on his hands and knees as he scrubbed at a stubborn patch of grime.

"Sometimes I hate this castle," he muttered.

"Yeah."

"It sometimes feels like everything and everyone is against me."

Pansy made a sympathetic noise. "I know how you mean."

Harry scrubbed violently at the steps, trying to submerge his rising anger.

"It's okay, Harry. You have me, at least."

Harry continued scrubbing. He couldn't think of anything to say that would sound right.

"And I'm glad that I have you," Pansy added, more quietly.

"Yeah."

Pansy sat silently for a few moments. Then, before the quiet could grow awkward, she grabbed the smaller corner brush and joined in.

Together they scrubbed the invisible stairs until only the faintest shimmer of light against the glasslike railing could be seen, the steps themselves completely indistinguishable from the background surroundings.

* * *

The following morning, Harry had never been so eager to talk to Professor Quirrell.

He came very close to breaking down (again!) as he explained how much Professor Snape had wanted him to stand down and stop standing up for himself and Pansy, but he held his emotions inside and made it through the explanation.

"I disagree," Professor Quirrell said, after a moment's consideration. "Severus is trying to manage an entire house of chaos and scheming. Of course he wants to keep things to as even a state as possible. But he does not know you, Harry. Not like I do. I've seen how hard you try to prove yourself, and you're right to do so. You have a long, long way to go yet. You mustn't allow anyone to hold you back."

Harry breathed out, long and slow. Professor Quirrell was the one person he trusted to be honest and give him good advice. The one person he could believe. And if he said that Harry should keep doing what he was doing, it didn't matter what his head-of-house said. Harry would listen to Professor Quirrell over Professor Snape any day.

"So, what spells are we going to practice today?" Harry asked, eager now. All his worry and fear and anger from the previous day seemed pointless now, faint and distant. Unimportant.

"The same set as before. They are good, general, and basic enough to form a strong foundation for future spellwork."

Professor Quirrell spent the next half hour correcting Harry's wand movements for the water-conjuring spell, without success. He did praise Harry's marginally improved control over the Lumos and Lumonitio spells.

Then they went, more quickly as their time drew to a close, through the remaining spells in the set. Summoning and banishing, shielding and stunning. None of which Harry could actually cast yet. But they ran through the motions, Professor Quirrell correcting every minute slip of his hand. The motions were important, as he knew all too well from Charms class.

In the end, Professor Quirrell dismissed Harry and returned to preparing for his next classes, and Harry returned to the Slytherin dorms with his spirits revived, if not fully restored.

But the good mood didn't last long.

Somehow, news of Pansy's alleged unicorn sighting had spread to the upper year girls as well as the first-years. A great many of them were giggling and laying plans to sneak into the forest and find it. _Just_ the girls, as boys would ruin everything.

He felt a bit offended, since he'd been the first person Pansy told about what she saw. He shouldn't be pushed out of the way like that just because he wasn't a girl! That wasn't fair.

When Pansy and Millicent emerged, giggling like the rest, he began to lose hope entirely.

This stupid unicorn idea might as well have stolen her away.

Pansy waved, and Harry waved back. But she didn't come over to him. And he didn't go over to her either.

Instead, he trudged up to his own dorm. Draco was awake and muttering with Shawn again, and he gave a narrow-eyed glance to Harry as he entered.

"What are you whispering about up here?" Harry asked, in no mood to be left out of another thing.

"Someone is interfering with our spells," Shawn said, seeming not to notice Draco glower in his direction.

"Really?" Harry asked. "How would that work?"

Shawn shrugged. "No idea yet, though we've ruled out disillusioned saboteurs and anyone under Imperio."

"Shut up," Draco muttered

Shawn jumped. He looked embarrassed, and shut up.

"What is it you expect me to do, Draco?" Harry demanded. "Is this some grand secret? Should I be blackmailing you now?"

"No, of course not. And my father would never let you get away with it if you tried."

"So why the secrecy? Just trying to feel like 'real Slytherins' with secrets and conspiracies?" Harry knew he should stop, but he was angry and it felt so good to have someone to take it out on. "Well, here's a thought. Maybe your spells aren't working because you're spending your time whispering in the bedroom instead of practicing!"

"And yours are working better, I assume?" Draco said sneeringly. "Now that your wand is actually performing some low degree of magic, instead of simply dripping light all over the common room, you think you're in a position to judge the rest of us mere mortals?"

"That happened once," Harry said. "And I'm not judging you, I'm offering helpful advice. But I see I shouldn't have bothered."

Harry wanted to storm out to his room. But he was already in his room, and Pansy and her giggling unicorn club were downstairs. So he did the next best thing. He stalked over to his bed, drew the drapes, and sat down with his back to the whispering duo.

He wondered if there _were_ any actual conspiracies or adventures here, or if it was just things like Pansy's unicorn. A flash of white, and suddenly you saw a whole herd of unicorns and your entire house is going to go find them with you. As long as they're girls.

Hogwarts felt suddenly flat and shallow. Who cared if it was a unicorn or a. . . or a piece of torn fabric? Who'd want to go into the stupid forest anyway? What did it matter if Draco and his little gang were failing at simple spells? Did it have to be some imagined nemesis?

Harry wished he could go back to Professor Quirrell's office and practice incendio for about three hours. Right then, he felt he might have been able to make it work.

But he wasn't the only one who wanted private training, and Professor Quirrell had papers to grade and lessons to plan on top of that. Harry didn't want to interrupt him. Didn't want to bother him, or upset him, or do anything that might make him send Harry away. On top of everything else right now, he couldn't bear to do anything to alienate his one true ally.

Harry shivered at the thought. Professor Quirrell had been directly involved in every single event that had made his life worth living. He couldn't imagine a life without him. It go back to being bleak, empty, and hopeless.

He lay down. Staring up between his curtains at the window above usually helped relax him. The quiet lake, any movement muted by depth; the deep greenish light that filtered down. It was beautiful. Fluid and powerful, steady and self-assured.

Why couldn't Harry be more like the lake? Why did it feel like he got splashed around every time?

He was a puddle, tiny and vulnerable and so easily scattered. It made him angry. At the world, at Hogwarts, and at himself.

He lay there until he heard Draco leave. Shawn wasn't one of the Malfoy groupies, but he didn't stay long after Draco left. Just long enough to make it clear he was leaving because he wanted to, and not because he was following Draco.

Harry sighed. He stared at the lake a bit longer in silence. Though that helped to mute his irritation, it did nothing for his increased apathy and self-loathing.

He wondered morosely if this was how the rest of the school year would be. Everyone was tired of him by now, not special any more, just Harry. Who needs Harry when you can make up conspiracies and unicorns?

He rolled over and got out his transfiguration homework, but couldn't concentrate. There was no point in trying anything complicated when he felt so out of sorts. He shoved it back into his bag and grabbed the Charms assignment instead. At least that was something he could do mindlessly. Practice wand movement.

Harry drew out his wand and felt slightly better as he began running through the wrist drills. The hesitant thrum of power his wand contained was something tangible, real, solid and his.

He would never be ordinary again, even if he felt less extraordinary than everyone around him.

He had to remember that. It wasn't about anyone else here. Hogwarts was his home. It was where he belonged. He couldn't let other people being mean change that for him. Not Professor Snape, and not Pansy's giggling friends, and not Draco Malfoy.

Professor Quirrell had warned him against practicing the higher power spells he was teaching until Harry had cast them at least once successfully. If Harry did it wrong without someone there to correct him, he might engrain bad habits which would be harder to get rid of.

Right then, Harry didn't care.

He twisted his hand through the complex movement Professor Quirrell kept showing him, jabbed his wand at the window above him, and called, "Incendio!"

A brief spurt of flame ignited, flared out, and caught the drapes surrounding Harry's bed on fire.

"No no no!" Harry jumped up and tried to extinguish the magical flames. He had no time to appreciate the fact that he'd just made it work. His bed was on fire!

He remembered the basics about smothering flames, so he tore the drape down with a great ripping sound that bent the support bar in the process, rolled it up into a ball and shoved it under the rug. The smoke leaked weakly from beneath it, then faded away on the air.

He couldn't think what to do next, adrenaline still making him tense and anxious. He watched the rug with consternation for a few minutes, but no fire or more smoke appeared. He pulled the drape out and, trying to hide the scorched patch along the side, stood on his bed to try and rehang it.

The drape had torn where it connected to the rings. Harry scowled at it. It would be impossible to reattach.

Disgusted and furious with himself, Harry threw the drape in a pile on the floor. He couldn't worry about it right now. He had to work on his homework.

He hadn't seen anything about the repairing spell yet, though he had heard it mentioned regularly. He decided that, once he'd finished his current projects, that should be one of the next things he'd find. Research.

Pansy and her friends were still in the common room when he came down. He ignored them, though Mildred called his name, and went out into the dungeon proper. After wandering the dark and slightly damp halls and climbing down three flights of steps, Harry finally located a snake to carry his message.

"I accidentally cast Incendio this morning," Harry instructed the snake to convey to Professor Quirrell. He didn't want to interrupt him, true, but this was a momentous occasion.

He'd been working on the spell for a month without success, so the fact that he'd done it now was reason to celebrate.

But standing alone in the darkness, knowing Pansy was off planning trips into the Forest without him, he didn't feel much like celebrating. He sat down on the damp step, finding no will to move. Now that the momentary rush from his success had faded, the accomplishment felt utterly empty. So now he could make fire. How would that help?

It felt disconnected from reality; _Harry_ felt disconnected from reality. Like he had two lives, twisted around each other. One where he was learning spells and could become powerful and strong, and another where he was living the same terrible, unbearable, daily routine as ever. Where anything he ever thought he had was snatched away as soon as he began to trust it would remain his. And every time it grew a little harder to believe in the next. Whether it was Dudley or just simple fate, Harry kept losing everything.

He should go to breakfast, but he couldn't bear the thought of facing the deluge of girls that would be excited and giggling and chattering. He had gotten more used to there being people everywhere, but it wasn't exactly comfortable for him. And right now he couldn't bring himself to care. So he'd miss breakfast, so what? He'd missed breakfast more times than he could remember, the whole time he was growing up as punishment for various infractions.

He was good at being alone. He didn't need anyone.

Maybe if he repeated it enough times he wouldn't feel so lonely.


	24. Silver in the Night

_Silver in the Night_

* * *

"So, what's the point of Quidditch, exactly?"

Harry asked it innocently enough, at lunchtime, but half the table immediately gave him either incredulous or upset looks. There was a brief silence, then several people leaned forward and began to explain over each other.

"It's about team spirit—" began a third-year girl.

"It's the one place we can actually show up the other houses!" This from a large fourth-year. "Not with bookwork, no one cares about that, but we can prove we're the best."

"We get to fly and try to knock Gryffindors off brooms! What could be better?"

"And there's the Snitch," said another boy eagerly. "Chasing it is exhilarating. Like being a hunter, after the most elusive prey."

"Nothing like the moment when the Quaffle goes right past the keeper's arms and into the goal."

"And Derrick is so dreamy," sighed a fourth-year girl. Harry couldn't get a word in edgewise. It was all he could do to pick out individual voices amid the clamour.

"If anyone doubted we were the best, it would have been with a different team."

"Well, it was a different team last year."

"Not a better one though."

"Terence isn't the best seeker," added someone else who hadn't spoken yet. Harry was starting to lose track of who was even talking anymore.

"That would be Cedric Diggory," said the older girl, the same look in her eyes as she'd had talking about Derrick. " _He's_ the best seeker."

"Ew, gross," said Primma, walking by with that sway that Harry had come to associate with her. Pansy's sister certainly knew how to make herself noticeable.

The fourth year blushed. "You can't deny he's handsome though."

"I can deny whatever I please, obviously," Primma said, and continued walking. She paused again to wink at someone farther down the table, who half-stood and grinned after her. Harry thought he seemed decidedly less than intelligent.

Pansy gave a harsh laugh, drawing Harry's attention back to her. The increasingly heated Quidditch conversation continued without him, forgotten.

"Can you believe her?" Pansy hissed. "Modifying her robe like that? How is she even allowed to get away with it?"

Harry didn't see what modification Pansy meant, but Primma was good at drawing attention away from what she was wearing.

Pansy shoved her plate away, scowling after her departing sister. "Ugh. Are you almost done eating? I want to go outside."

Harry grinned and finished eating quickly. He and Pansy hadn't found time to play their practice game together in days. The weather as he stepped outside wasn't the best, proving to be overcast and chilly, but at least it wasn't raining more than the occasional few drops and the wind was relatively calm.

But his hopes for an ordinary afternoon game were dashed a few moments later. Pansy wasn't the only girl to follow him outside to the grounds, and the others were clearly not there for the spellcasting game.

"Where did you see it?" Reiko asked. She looked determined, following close behind Pansy.

"Are you still on about that unicorn?" Harry asked, immediately annoyed.

"Heresy!" proclaimed one of the giggling girls. Harry had stopped trying to tell which was which. Aside from those he shared classes with, Pansy's friends were too numerous to keep track of.

"Unicorns are purity and beauty!" exclaimed another girl, a third year.

Harry wondered how this had gotten so out of hand so quickly.

"So you don't want to come with us?" Pansy asked, pouting at Harry.

"Of course I do," he said without thinking. "I'd love to go with you."

Pansy beamed and raised his hand triumphantly. A few of the girls even gave a cheer.

Harry's annoyance evaporated as though it had never been. He suddenly found he couldn't stop smiling.

* * *

So it was that Harry found himself sneaking out of the castle an hour before curfew, excited and terrified by equal measure.

They planned to meet behind the gamekeeper's cottage under cover of evening shadows. It wasn't the whole group, thankfully. At least half had been more interested in giggling about the thought than in actually sneaking into the forest.

Harry liked the thought of his chances when sneaking with a small group much better than a large one.

A few older students walked in pairs or sat studying together throughout the grounds, despite the damp and chill, but the first and second years were already inside. Except those involved in this wild unicorn chase.

Pansy and Reiko were the obvious ringleaders. Harry gathered that there were no unicorns in Japan where Reiko was from, and she was fascinated by the thought of them. Pansy, of course, was convinced that's what she'd seen and was going to prove it.

They were joined by three or four second years, a pair of third years who tried to take over command from Pansy on account of being older and actual Care of Magical Creatures students, and of course the ever-eager Tracey. Millicent and Mildred had elected to remain in the castle, as had Daphne.

Part of Harry wished he had done the same, but he was also ecstatic that he'd been included in the group at all. From their initial conversations, he'd had a distinct impression of his unwelcomeness on this adventure, though it seemed to have dissipated completely overnight. He was sure Pansy was to thank. She had a way with other girls, something mystifying that Harry could never hope to understand or imitate.

"I think we should try that section first," Reiko said, once they were all assembled. She pointed toward the westernmost section of forest, which seemed slightly less forbidding than the rest. "I read that unicorns like to watch the sunset."

"It's a good bit past sunset," said one of the third-years, skeptical.

"And I was over in that area when I saw it last time." Pansy pointed to the other side of the forest.

"I don't think they stay in the same place for very long," said the other third year, a girl with long blond hair and determined grey eyes. Harry had heard her name before, but couldn't bring it to mind. She continued confidently, "I think they would be more likely to range across the entire forest."

"But they might be watching the sunset," Reiko insisted.

"Or they might be anywhere in the whole forest."

"The sunset is over, if we don't try that first they'll be gone before we get there. If they could be anywhere, then we should try the most time-sensitive one first."

"And what're you all doin' back 'ere at this time 'o evening, then?"

Hagrid's booming voice startled them into nervous chaos.

"Nothing," Pansy said, trying to sound innocent.

"Talking about unicorns," said Reiko.

The two older students gave variations on "playing escort to the little kids" which made Tracey burst out indignantly, "Hey, we are not little kids!"

"One at a time," Hagrid asked, chuckling. "How about you, 'arry?"

Harry instinctively hunched under his scrutiny. "We wanted to find a unicorn, sir."

Hagrid laughed. "Yeh won't find any unicorns with so many of yeh. They're shy of strangers. This many, they'd run off as soon as look at yeh."

"Would they come out if I was alone?" Pansy asked.

"Possibly. Can't tell until they see yeh. Some folks they take to right off, others they're shy around until they learn to trust yeh. No way o' knowing until yeh get one in front of yeh."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "We should have asked a teacher to accompany us."

Several of the girls gasped. "No," Tracey exclaimed. "That would destroy the adventure of it!"

"We were only doing extra research for Care of Magical Creatures," said the darker-haired third year girl, changing her story again. Harry decided he didn't like her very much.

Hagrid chuckled and shook his head. "It's fine, s'long as yeh don't go into the forest alone. I'll come with yeh!"

"But you're big and very, er. . . not a girl?"

"Rubbish. Th' unicorns know me. They'll come to me without worry."

This set off a round of blushing and whispering and giggling between the older girls, which Harry did not understand. And didn't really care to.

The large group moved into the forest, Hagrid swinging an oversized lantern to light their way. The girls grouped up, whispering and squealing whenever they heard the slightest noise.

They weren't stealthy in the slightest. Harry could hear twigs snapping and the branches rustling as they brushed against them. Hagrid was quieter than any of the students, despite his bulk.

They followed what might have been a path, or could simply have been whereever Hagrid could fit between trees. It meandered into ever darker and deeper forest, and Harry was increasingly glad to be in a large group. The giggling, tinged with occasional nervousness though it was, kept the forest from seeming quite as dark or perilous as it could have otherwise.

The group progressed at a slow, steady pace and did not see or encounter anything for what felt like hours. Then Harry began to see shadows in the forest. Flickering, but not in time with Hagrid's lantern. Shapes too high, too low. Too big, too thin. Not tree-shaped, but other.

The group's laughter grew fainter, tinged with more fear. Pansy clung close to Harry's side, holding his hand in her own. He couldn't have said if it was his sweat or hers that dampened their shared grip.

Then Hagrid began humming. Loud and soft at once, and rather tuneless. Normally Harry would have considered the sound horrible, but in this case it actually broke the tension of the dark forest.

"Hogwarts, hogwarts, hoggy warty hogwarts. . ." One of the second years began singing, and with a relieved laugh the third years joined in too. Singing quietly, to Hagrid's off-key backdrop, they made their way through the forest.

Harry didn't know the school song, but as it turned out neither did the rest. It didn't stop them. Pansy joined in, repeating phrases in the wrong places and belting out her improvised lyrics with gusto.

Within moments the shadows ceased to appear threatening. The whole trek grew boisterous, careless. The bantering and giggling returned in full force, though they did make an obvious - though doomed - attempt to keep the noise to just above a whisper.

They didn't stop singing, though, which would have ruined any attempt at stealth even without the frequent snapping of branches and the rustle and crackle as they pushed their way heedlessly through patches of brush or across dry leaves.

Harry still glimpsed shapes moving through the darkness, but tried not to think about them. Keeping his attention firmly on Hagrid's back helped.

So intent was he that he didn't even notice when they actually found the unicorn.

"Quiet, quiet," Hagrid said, shushing everyone with a raised hand. The whispers and giggling died and faded to silence. Hagrid stepped aside, grinning widely, and shuttered the lantern. The girls let out a collective gasp.

Glowing faintly in the darkness, her front legs tucked under her and head lowered to her chest, a silvery unicorn lay in a small clearing. Her shape was much more deer-like than Harry had anticipated. He'd always thought of unicorns rather as smaller horses. Yet there was nothing small about her, despite her delicate form. Her horn was over a foot long, brushing the ground each time she breathed out.

The faint light she emitted illuminated the whole clearing, silver glimmering on dewdrops and damp leaves. It wouldn't be enough to see by properly, but it was enough to cast the place in an unearthly shimmer.

Then the unicorn woke, sensing their presence. She raised her head, gave out a concerned whinnying snort, and stepped smoothly to her feet. She'd backed up a half-dozen steps before Hagrid could start forward, making a soft purring sound Harry wouldn't have recognized as human.

The unicorn huffed, pawed at the ground, and backed up another several steps.

"There there," Hagrid muttered. He continued to slowly advance, but the unicorn shook her glimmering pure-white mane and turned away.

In a flash of silver and white, she bounded away into the forest, vanishing from sight faster than Harry would ever have imagined.

The clearing, though lit by Hagrid's lantern, felt empty and dark and cold without her. All the levity and joy seemed to have fled with the unicorn, replaced with a deep sense of respect.

"It looked right at me," Reiko whispered, sounding awestruck. "Did you see it?"

"It looked at me too," Pansy breathed. "I could never have imagined anything so beautiful."

* * *

It was a subdued but satisfied group that returned to the castle. Hagrid escorted them back to the front gates of the castle. They walked back to the dungeons, whispering all the while, but their conversation now held a surreal air of gravity.

They reached the common room just minutes before curfew. Harry didn't feel inclined to linger about the common room. He got ready for bed amid a lingering feeling of wonder and beauty and indescribable magic.

He remembered meeting the unicorn's eye, just for a moment, as she looked at each of them in turn. Into them, it almost felt.

And then she'd left, but not without leaving the most glowing, vibrant vision of herself behind in their memory. Harry knew that her image would remain burned in his mind for a long time, a vision of what magic could be.

It wasn't just about regimented wand movements, directing intention and thought along well-worn paths, and growing stronger in personal skill. Magic was also about hidden glades in evening forests, about beauty found in darkness. And about the wildness that lingered beyond where humanity expanded, the power and freedom of that magic which could never be truly understood.

He slept well and deeply that night, visions and memories blending into dreams of quiet contentment.


	25. April Fools 2019 - Long-Hidden Secrets

_Disclaimer: The square root of Harry Potter is 3474.68617287950193379744401683. But he still belongs to J. K. Rowling. If he belonged to me, his square root would be much smaller._

* * *

 **_.'-'._.H.P._.'-'._.H.o.D._.'-'._.S.o.t.P._.'-'._**

* * *

Harry approached the Headmaster's office with trepidation. He'd been keeping up on his studies, more or less. He could name most of the students in his class, and had actually spoken to a few of them even without Pansy there. Professor Snape seemed a little irritated by him sometimes, but from what he could tell he was often irritated with most of the students. (Draco being the exception, for some reason.)

Harry didn't _think_ his head-of-house would have ordered him off to the Headmaster for anything _bad_ , surely.

"Unhappy Cupcakes?" Harry said tentatively. The gargoyles flanking the office entrance scoffed with laughter, but the door between them swung open to reveal a constantly revolving staircase, like a spiral escalator moving both upwards and downwards at once. It made Harry feel slightly dizzy watching it, but he stepped forward anyway. It wouldn't do to be late.

The stair moved him upward, and brought him to a stop at the landing. An archway led into Professor Dumbledore's office. The headmaster sat on a tall three-legged stool, leaning over and whispering to a bedraggled bird on a perch. The creature looked like it was on the verge of collapse, but kept making gently little trilling notes that Harry felt resonate all the way through his soul.

An auburn-haired girl sat to one side, two intricate braids trailing down on either side of her face. Harry couldn't make out her features, as she was leaning forward toward the headmaster.

"Ah, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said, nodding and waving for him to approach. The stool shrank down, converting itself into a comfortable armchair, and the bird trilled one final time and fell silent.

"Sit, sit. We have much to discuss."

Harry sat, in a chair much like what the girl sat in, but with hints of green and silver embroidery trailing through the dark upholstery.

"Sirius didn't like your demands," the girl said. "He insisted he ought to be here. The fact your wards didn't admit him made him furious."

The headmaster nodded once, a smile crinkling his face. "He was a headstrong one, your godfather," he said. "But a good man, for all that."

Harry was completely lost, and very confused. What was the point of this meeting? The girl looked about the right age to be attending Hogwarts. . . was she a mid-term transfer? If so, why was _Harry_ here?

As though reading Harry's thoughts, the headmaster turned and addressed him.

"Harry, you must understand, the age into which you were born was unlike this present peace. Voldemort's forces were insidious, ever-present, unstoppable, unfindable. He himself was hardly more than a name, whispered in darkness to frighten those who opposed him. Your parents had contingencies prepared in the event that they were to die—"

Harry unconsciously gripped his wand. Yes, their 'contingencies' were to dump him with an aunt and uncle who hated him, who cared nothing for him, who made his entire childhood a living hell. . .

"—as in fact they did." Professor Dumbledore continued. "What they did not prepare for, however, was the possibility that they might die the same night the war ended. Their will remained legally binding, and for the protection of you both, their desires were carried out."

Harry frowned. _'You both'?_

"Harry James Potter, this is your twin sister. Verity Lily Potter, this is your twin brother." The two children stared at each other, and Harry saw his own shock mirrored on Verity's face.

"When Lord Voldemort first targeted Harry, Verity was sent away with their best friend, Sirius Black, to be protected away from the crisis. Harry, you remained with your parents under the deepest protective charms known to wizardkind, but even that proved insufficient. With power unknown to us, Voldemort broke through our greatest defences and killed your parents. Yes, you both know the story already, but I must emphasize this point. _Voldemort killed your parents._ In cold blood, for no other purpose than to get to Harry."

Harry's frown deepened. He could tell Verity was just as confused. Lord Voldemort's plans often seemed crazy, everyone knew that.

"I tell you this, because I have begun to suspect that there is a deeper plan at work. One which the pair of you are entangled in so deeply that to leave you in ignorance would be the utmost folly. You have my deepest apologies, I would not have placed this burden upon those of your tender youth did I not truly believe there to be no other choice. For the greater good of wizardkind, you must—"

"And witchkind," Verity said, crossing her arms. "It's witchcraft _and_ wizardry, not just wizardry."

"For the good of all witchkind and wizardkind," Professor Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling for but a moment before regaining their stern countenance, "the pair of you _must_ know the truth so that you can face your destinies with intelligence and preparation. Verity, your guardian has long known that there was something special about you. You've been taught the secrets of every powerful family within our Order, prepared to fight from the moment you could first hold a wand."

Verity held her chin up, clearly proud of the fact.

"Harry, on the other hand, was trapped in a situation which could not possibly be more opposite to your own. He lived with muggles, never even touched a wand before this year, and while he _can_ improve with dramatic speed when he puts his mind to it, his motivation seems lackluster and patchy. He needs you, Verity, and you will need him."

"You want me to take him as an apprentice?" Verity asked, looking Harry over with a considering look.

Harry didn't like this at all. He wasn't something to be just foisted off on some _girl_ , as though he didn't already _have_ a teacher. Professor Quirrell was doing a _great_ job teaching him. They may not have access to 'the greatest secrets of powerful whatevers' but Harry was improving just fine.

Normally, he'd have been furious at this treatment, but as happened every time he was in the headmaster's presence the aura of peace that surrounded the older wizard soothed and calmed his rage, suppressing the sharpest edge of his irritation, so he was only annoyed.

"Harry must continue his studies here, and you must continue your studies with Sirius. However, I'm sure we can arrange a few hours a week. Saturday evenings, perhaps?"

Saturday evening was Harry's informal practice time with Pansy. She needed help with her pronunciation as much as Harry needed help with his wandwork, and he was _not_ going to give that up just to be pushed around by his _twin sister_.

Suddenly the reality hit him. _Sister!?_ He wasn't alone any more. He wasn't just a lone orphan, he was. . . part of a family?

Pansy would understand, they could reschedule easily enough. Harry had never felt so overwhelmed, the conflicting confusion and hope and unbreakable _joy_ that soared through him. He wished he was better with people, better with relationships, better able to understand emotions and responses that were expected of him.

He knew with complete and utter certainty that Verity was his to protect. The love that he'd never before had a name for or anyone to give to, of an older brother for his precious sister, clicked into place as though some part of him had always been waiting. She may be the one teaching him for now, but Harry knew, felt absolutely sure, from that point on he would guard her life with his own.

They were both watching him expectantly, and Harry abruptly snapped out of his mental flood.

"Saturdays are fine for me," he said. "I'll have to rearrange some things, but it's easily doable."

He glanced over at his sister, _his sister!_ and grinned.

"That works for me as well," she said, smiling back at him. "I can't wait to get to know you, Harry. I knew our parents were killed, but I'd never imagined I had a brother hidden out there somewhere."

"That was for your - both of your - protection," the headmaster said sadly. "So long as neither of you were aware the other had survived, you could each remain safe from the darkness that would seek to devour you both. I regret, so deeply, that neither of you were able to have the childhood together you so deeply deserved. And I regret more the burden which I must now place upon you both. The reason Harry was targeted by Voldemort. The reason Verity was sent away. A prophecy."

Harry nodded. Verity gasped and her eyes went very wide.

"The ones with the power to subdue the Dark Lord approach," Professor Dumbledore intoned, his voice deep and resonant, rising and falling in a completely different pattern than his usual speech.

"Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal and their power will be unmatched. Guarded by love and empowered by hatred, they will have power none other has known. The ones with the power of darkness and light will be born as the seventh month dies."

Harry felt himself trembling.

"I have had many years to ponder this riddle," the headmaster continued. "I concluded that 'darkness and light' could refer to the ancient Dark secrets Sirius has access to through his family, and those of the Light houses we already share together. That is why I insisted, Verity, that you be taught _everything_. Your brother needs the same access, to secrets both Light and Dark, if the prophecy is to be made true."

"Prophecy is a guide, not a promise," Verity said, with the air of one quoting.

"Precisely," Professor Dumbledore agreed, smiling. His eyes twinkled. "And this prophecy seems particularly in our favour. The power to subdue the Dark Lord."

"But Lord Voldemort is dead," Harry said. "So what Dark Lord is it talking about?"

"Ah, Harry, that is a different point altogether. On the whole, I'm afraid he is not."

"Not?" Verity asked, her voice quiet.

"No. Alas, the prophecy says you'll have the power to _subdue_ the Dark Lord, not to destroy him. He has long been the practitioner of many secrets of such darkness and depravity that even I know only the rumor of their existence. He has bound himself to life more times and in more ways than any other wizard in all history. Even the Darkest wizards of eras past never dared to delve even a fraction as deep into evil as Voldemort."

"But if that's all, then didn't I already do that?" Harry asked. "Whatever I did when I was one, he vanished. He's never been heard from again. So, there, he's been subdued. End of story." He quailed under the headmaster's disapproving stare. "Right?" he finished weakly.

"The prophecy clearly refers to _they, them_. It is a plural prophecy in every way. Multiple people. Multiple encounters. The Dark Lord would mark 'him' as an equal - that's you, Harry. But those who can subdue him, are both of you."

"Individually?" Verity asked. "Or only together? Is it implying that we need to combine our abilities to subdue him for good? That what we do alone is only a temporary reprieve? That. . . that he'll come back, probably sooner than later?"

"Indeed," Professor Dumbledore said. "That is what I fear. I have begun to hear whispers, rumbles of the past resurfacing. I have felt shiftings in the pattern of magic, ripples in the powers of the world. I fear we are running out of time. I'd originally planned to introduce you over the summer, send Harry to stay with you and Sirius to train then, but I fear we can no longer afford to delay. Something is coming."

"Why now?" Harry asked. "Why today, and not next month or last? What changed?"

Professor Dumbledore chuckled fondly. "My little Slytherin. Of course you want to know." His face grew solemn. "There is an item of greatest power, which up until now I have been working full-time to protect. Now, at last, the defences are complete and I can trust them to hold against any assault. Now is when my attention can turn to other matters, and things I now realize I have long neglected."

He winked at Harry.

"Why not last month? Because I was engaged completely in unraveling the innermost secrets of an ancient artifact and rewriting its being to serve my purposes. Why not next month? Because the sooner you begin to prepare for your shared destiny, the better chance you have of surviving it."

There was silence for a moment, then Verity spoke.

"Empowered by hatred," she said faintly. "That's why you said what you did at the start, about Voldemort killing our parents. So we could hate him properly."

Harry shifted slightly, unsure of his stance on the matter. Lord Voldemort was obsessively directive in his approach, completely without morals, but he was also a genius spellcrafter. His existence may have caused great harm, but Harry couldn't help but think that the fact he wasn't dead after all could be a great gift to wizardkind. (And witchkind.)

Subdue, after all, didn't have to mean something like 'violently physically/magically restrain.' It could just as easily mean symbolically; subdue his desire for evil, 'subdue the Dark Lord' by bringing Lord Voldemort around to a more moderate approach.

After all, if Lord Voldemort was a beacon of hope and wizarding (and witching) progress, he would no longer be the Dark Lord. Prophecy fulfilled.

If Lord Voldemort had chosen to mark Harry as his equal, it may be possible to have a rational and reasonable debate with him. Surely, when faced with the true reality, even a slightly-insane Dark Lord would see that there was a better option.

After all, the prophecy had offered no promise that Lord Voldemort could win, only that he could be subdued. Give him a loophole, instead of a battle to the inevitable, offer a chance to begin anew. Perhaps even together. Harry could only imagine how much he could learn from someone so powerful and intelligent.

He decided he'd have to discuss the matter with Professor Quirrell, see if he had any ideas for how to approach such a task. If Harry planned to engage the greatest Dark genius of the era in an intellectual debate in order to bring him to the right side, it would take a truly prodigious amount of preparation.

Somehow, though, Harry just didn't feel that empowered. Hating Lord Voldemort seemed wasteful.

Perhaps Verity was the one empowered by hatred. But that would mean Harry was 'guarded by Love' and that sounded off. _Her_ guardian was the one who loved her. Could she be both? But it said 'they' specifically. Or were they both supposed to be both?

Verity was empowered by hatred. Verity was guarded by love, both Sirius's and Harry's own. Verity knew powers of darkness and light. The only thing Harry had was that he'd been marked as Lord Voldemort's equal. And in that case, the line about 'their power' might just as easily mean Harry's and Lord Voldemort's as Harry and Verity's.

But the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Yes, he decided. That was balanced. That was right. Verity would subdue Lord Voldemort physically and magically, while Harry would match him intellectually, with cunning and determination.

A mental battle was, after all, the only kind of battle worth winning. Convince an adversary your paths align, and you find a new companion on the road to come.

* * *

 **_.'-'._.H.P._.'-'._.H.o.D._.'-'._.S.o.t.P._.'-'._**

* * *

Author's Note: Muahahahah! I've been looking forward to this update all year. Parts of this scene have been written months ago, but I had to wait for the right time to post. I've been keeping so many secrets for so long, it feels great to finally let you all in on a scant few of them. Don't worry, there are going to be way more drastic changes to original canon to come. This is the least of it. Thank you so much for reading!

 **_.'-'._.H.P._.'-'._.H.o.D._.'-'._.S.o.t.P._.'-'._**

[Additional Note] In celebration of the new month, you'll probably notice I've made a few changes to the formatting! I replaced the BORING straight line dividers with a custom divider of my own with the initials of my story in it! And I added a disclaimer to the beginning! because most people do that and I suddenly realized how much I've been missing out on making up fun disclaimers!

* * *

 **_.'-'._.H.P._.'-'._.H.o.D._.'-'._.S.o.t.P._.'-'._**

* * *

 ** _!.!.!.!.!.!PLEASE REVIEW!.!.!.!.!.!_**


	26. Slytherin vs Gryffindor

_Author's Notes :_

 _First, I apologize for the delay in update, especially since I left you with nothing but that terrible April Fools' chapter for months. In case it wasn't clear, absolutely everything about it was a joke; author notes, dividers and all. This version of Harry does not in fact have a secret twin sister OC. Anything else which was 'revealed' last chapter should be considered non-canonical to this story. ;) I wrote that chapter on April 3rd of last year, so I'd been sitting on it a good while._

 _This chapter has been sitting half-done for weeks. I haven't been able to get the next scene to work out well. I'm posting as-is now, since at this point a one-scene partial-chapter is better than nothing. Though at this point it feels like almost everything I post is just 'better than nothing' level._ _:_ /

 _Next month is July, so I'll be working on four different projects for campnanowrimo - this story among them - and cannot promise to update until afterward. I've also been given significantly more responsibility at work than in the past, so my time and creative energy are both at a severe low ebb. I'm still writing, just at a regrettably sluggish pace. I really hope the pressure of Nanowrimo will help me get some increased wordcounts, because at this rate I'm looking at less than half my usual yearly wordcount at best, but only time will tell._

 _Without further ado, we now return to your regularly scheduled fanfic._

* * *

 _Slytherin vs Gryffindor_

* * *

"You have to understand, there's much more to Quidditch than most people understand. There's a whole lot of hidden finesse and subtlety to it that makes it the very best sport ever invented."

"It sounds to me like an excuse for the fastest flier to show off how much more important he is than everyone else."

"No, that's just the point. It's about prevention. The chasers are supposed to create and hold a sufficient lead that the Seekers become irrelevant to the outcome. The beaters are trying to keep the seeker off-balance, distract him and prevent any actual snitch-catching. And the keeper is to prevent the chasers from creating the lead. It's very complicated, very well-balanced, and incredibly exciting to watch."

"It doesn't seem that exciting," someone put in, and Harry nodded in agreement despite not really being part of the debate.

He'd attended one practice, at Pansy's insistence. It had largely consisted of the best fliers Slytherin house could field flying in loops and circles, passing a ball back and forth. And dropping it more often than not.

"You haven't even seen a real game yet. Let alone a professional match. Trust me. It's more than just a pastime. Quidditch is the number one unifying force within the magical world. Every country has a team, or more than one, if they're worth anything."

"And what about the countries that don't?" a fourth year asked snippishly.

"They don't count, obviously."

"There isn't much to be said for some teams, but the fact is that they exist."

"That's all we can say for the Chudley Cannons, at least."

Then they began discussing actual teams, player names, actual plays they'd seen or heard of or read about, and Harry grew increasingly lost. He dismissed Quidditch as irrelevant to his schooling and growth as a wizard, returning his attention to his homework and social notes. He'd spent enough time fleeing from things which meant him harm, he had no desire to do so voluntarily.

But that was before Cole Spencer and another third-year named Miles cornered him in the Slytherin common room and gave him a firm talking-to about the cultural importance of Quidditch, how Harry's lack of obvious enthusiasm was a disgrace to his family name and to Slytherin house, and that given his obvious talent as a flier there would be severe consequences if Harry failed to pay close attention.

"Listen, Harry," began Cole, while Miles stood beside him with his arms crossed. "There's something very important you need to understand about wizarding life. Quidditch is really a cornerstone of modern magical culture. I didn't understand that at first, and it was a huge problem. I tried to dedicate my time and attention to myself and learning, and thought that talking to people was enough to form friendships. It's not. You need shared interests, shared worldviews, to truly connect. And for the vast majority of the wizarding world, that means Quidditch."

"That can't be true," Harry said. "There's lots of muggles who don't care about sports. How could the wizard world be any different?"

"Because we're a much smaller, much tighter, and much more unified community. Listen to me Harry. If you don't learn now to care, genuinely care, about Quidditch, you'll be an outsider the rest of your life." Cole shook his head. "If you keep on as you've been, you'll be locked out of nearly every social group by the end of next term. Trust me. Even Parkinson cares more about Quidditch than you, and that's something I never thought I'd say to anyone."

Professor Quirrell had never mentioned the importance of Quidditch to Harry. He'd rarely mentioned the sport at all. But then, he was another halfblood, who hadn't grown up in wizard culture. As was Harry. And as was Cole.

"I'll remember," Harry said.

"Good," Miles said firmly. "You should go to the match next month. Make a flag to wave, wear a Slytherin scarf, do something to show your team unity. And even if you don't understand what's going on up there just yet, cheer for your team. Which you _will_ be trying out for next year—" Miles gave him a very severe glower as he said this "—and if you expect everyone else to _teach_ you how the game is played you clearly didn't understand the point."

They didn't leave it at that, but spent several more minutes made it quite clear that if he didn't do everything in his power to learn the game now, things would go poorly with him later.

On the one hand, Harry didn't want to have so many people's desires hinging on him, but it also felt kind of . . . _amazing_ to know that his flying ability was actually exceptional, that people had noticed, and that they wanted to see him do more.

The prospect of playing for the House team intimidated Harry. but he continued his never-ending campaign to rid himself of his still-lingering tendencies for retreat and passivity. He already wrote out on his wall in _lumano_ each morning, ' _I will not let fear stop me any longer'_ or some variation thereof. There had been too many years of weakness and everyone he trusted had made it clear he needed to change.

So, taking this as another thing to study and excel at if at all possible, Harry went to the library to research Quidditch.

As it turned out, it didn't take a lot.

He already knew the sheer, unadulterated love of flying. He knew the thrill of competition when casting spells and dodging, thanks to his game with Pansy. And he could imagine that same challenge being applied to snatching the Quaffle from the air, throwing it to his teammates, scoring goal after goal such that when their seeker finally caught the Snitch it would be a clear and complete victory. . .

Harry began attending most Slytherin quidditch practices, at first reluctantly, then with more enthusiasm as he began to understand. To his surprise, Pansy was always there too. He hadn't realized she attended _every_ practice, even those Harry declined in order to attend to homework or his personal spell practice.

Quidditch had a logic all its own. As someone raised with muggles everywhere, it took Harry several practices before he began to understand. At first, the whole thing seemed absurd. Flying around and throwing the ball to each other was obvious enough, but having to dodge violent balls trying to unseat you at the same time? And in the midst of all this chaos, one person had to hunt down and capture a tiny flash of gold light? Preposterous!

But the more he watched, he slowly realized that it wasn't preposterous at all. It was brilliant. The bludgers tended to go after people who were on their own more than groups, so the seekers were best served by sticking relatively close to either a beater or the keeper. The snitch, meanwhile, was faster than most broomsticks and could change direction instantaneously, darting off unpredictably without warning, while those on brooms had to deal with momentum and turning.

And through all this chaos, bludgers chasing stragglers, beaters chasing bludgers, seekers chasing the snitch - the chasers still had to try and score for their own team without being killed or knocked off their brooms.

It was insanely high-intensity, the speed at which everything _happened_ was incredible. And this was just a school team! Harry could only imagine how thrilling it would be to see an actual, professional team playing.

Harry started searching deeper, found newspapers with wizard photos which showed particularly popular or famous Quidditch players or their moments of victory or defeat. He found more technical books on flying tricks, seeker feints, beater exercises, and chaser formations.

So when the first game of the year arrived, Slytherin vs Gryffindor, Harry was right in the stands with Draco and Pansy, draped in enough green and silver to almost completely conceal his black robes, screaming and cheering for their team at the top of his voice.

One of the Gryffindors was commentating, though Harry didn't know his name.

"And there goes that bloody cheater, Fielding, who last year got away with— well, he's just hit the quaffle out of the air with his bat. Which isn't a standard play."

"There's no rule against it," shouted a fourth-year sitting near Harry.

"Pretty sure there is. And one of his teammates - new guy this year, is it? - Bludgely takes the quaffle and starts for the center hoop. C'mon Wood, block him!"

"Bletchley," corrected a fifth year, scowling, but she did so quietly enough that Harry doubted the commentator noticed.

Harry leaned forward in his seat as the first goal of the match seemed about to be scored. An easy gain for Slytherin?

"He throws, and—yes! Wood saves it, brilliant save by the Gryffindor keeper there folks. Ooh, that's got to hurt. Weasley and Weasley just did the most spectacular combined bludger attack I've ever seen, and Higgs can't keep up! He's being forced lower and lower. . . Oh! There's Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle now, go Angelina!"

The dark-skinned Gryffindor girl raced for the Slytherin posts, and Harry held his breath. She swerved at the last second, faking toward the leftmost goal, then tossing the quaffle backhanded as she continued the curve. "BEHIND YOU!" Harry shouted at Higgs, but it was too late. A groan went up from the Slytherins as the Gryffindor spectators cheered.

"Ten-nothing to Gryffindor, first score of the season goes to Angelina! Beautiful girl, wonderful player. . ." The commentator sighed dreamily before continuing. "Oh, and there's another brilliant play by the Weasley twins! Those two really know how to whack a bludger! Bludgely drops the Quaffle and— oh, it's saved by Pucey, no, he fumbled it! Alicia Spinnet takes possession! She's racing for the scoring zone—"

Harry shouted and cheered as the Slytherin keeper knocked the ball away, her dark ponytail flipping behind her as she made a beautiful flip to block.

"Blocked by Frome, but Angelina has regained the Quaffle— ooh, Flint and Pucey are playing rough today. Watch out Angelina! Don't let them— and she's lost the Quaffle. Flint in possession— passes to Bludgely, who passes back just in time to dodge a bludger. Derrick intercepts, knocking it toward Alicia, careful Alecia! She evades the bludger, but now she's too far away. Flint goes for the score— yes! Saved again by Oliver Wood. That man's an amazing keeper, just saying."

Harry spotted a glint of gold circling behind the Slytherin goalposts, far from where the action was taking place. Neither seeker seemed to have noticed it, both distracted by the tense exchange of quaffle taking place below them.

"Angelina passes to Alecia, who passes to Katie, who passes to Angelina— look at those ladies go! Flint attempts to intercept— but he takes a bludger to the shoulder! That's got to sting. Pucey steals the Quaffle, oh, but not for long! Way to go Angelina! And— yes! Gryffindor score again!"

By now, Harry had lost track of the snitch, his own attention drawn back to the dramatic back-and-forth of the Quaffle. The seekers circled just above the action, swooping lower or darting higher to avoid bludgers.

"Slytherin takes the Quaffle, Bludgely dodges Angelina and runs right into Katie. She's lost her seat on the broom, but still holding on. You can do it, Katie, get back on there!"

Harry joined the other Slytherins in booing the one-sided commentary. Bletchley tossed the Quaffle to Flint, who flew a wide loop around the goal posts and then dove straight at Wood. The Gryffindor keeper flinched back, and Flint slammed the Quaffle through the hoop.

"And she's back up! Oh, and it looks like Slytherin managed to score, with another of their dirty tricks," the commentator said, finally noticing. Harry hissed at him, and Draco joined in.

"Katie is back with a vengeance! Look at her go, that girl can _fly_. Angelina takes the Quaffle. And she scores! 30-10 to Gryffindor! Pucey is not having a good day today, fumbles the Quaffle again, taken by Alicia— oh, there go the seekers!"

A roar went up from the stands as both seekers dove, neck and neck, chasing the erratic glint of gold that Harry could barely keep track of.

"Higgs is in the lead, no, it's Markham. . . Oh, and Gryffindor score again," but he didn't sound as enthusiastic as usual. Everyone was leaning forward, watching as the two seekers raced for the snitch. "And— no! Higgs has the snitch. First game of the year, winner Slytherin."

The Slytherin crowd erupted into wild cheering, and Harry found himself screaming just as loud as everyone else. Pansy grinned and hugged him, Draco abandoned all decorum and did a celebratory dance. The upper years didn't seem quite as enthusiastic, treating it as their due rather than anything exceptional, but they cheered and clapped along with the rest.

Gryffindor booed, but the sound was drowned out as Slytherin hissed and cheered in triumph. Harry leapt up and down in excitement, waving his pennant and shouting himself hoarse. Draco Malfoy grinned over at him, and Harry grinned back. They'd won! Slytherin was well on its way to another dominant year as Cup champions.

Harry couldn't remember ever having felt such overpowering _emotion_ , the echo of adrenaline at the tension, the pure undiluted happiness around him. It was a vibrant, living, pulsing thing; so much bigger and deeper than anything he'd ever imagined possible.

The whole first-year populace of Slytherin walked back to the castle as a group, eager and happy and excited. Dissecting the game, discussing the players and the team's chances for the future, and reciting moments of triumph and failure alike filled their evening and well into the night.

He couldn't stop smiling at everyone, and for once he didn't feel like an outsider at all. There was no tension between himself and Draco, no awkward uncertainty of who to speak to or how to manage alliances or trying to figure out how not to look like a fool.

As everyone talked and laughed and joked and repeated the final play of the game over and over, long past when everyone should have been asleep, Harry didn't care about anything more than their victory.

And neither did anyone else.

Harry had never felt so much a part of something before. It was like every bit of the camaraderie of flying class, but magnified and compressed, and spread wider and farther. It was more amazing than he'd imagined.

Maybe the older students were right, after all. Quidditch could truly be the unifying force that bound the wizarding world together.

After that, everything changed. Not drastically, but in the quiet that filled the spaces between him and his yearmates. He still didn't have the first clue how to go about interacting with them, but now he could sit in the same room and feel comfortable rather than awkward. He could smile, and they could smile, for they shared a foundation.

It wasn't much, not yet enough to be true friendship. But for someone who grew up with nothing and no one. . . it felt like everything.

* * *

 _Author's Notes :_

 _Quidditch commentary is hard to write. I kinda hate it._

 _Also timelines. I hate timelines. Do things have to happen in order? meh._

* * *

 _Major edit 6-25-19: added several new sections throughout the scene, expanding on previously-summarized areas and adding clarity to a few details._

 _Minor edit 6-27-19: fixed a misplaced comma; clarified a couple sentences, fixed a misspelled word._


	27. Draco's Delay

"I hope you haven't lost track of your goals with your new enthusiasm for Quidditch."

Professor Quirrell managed to make the sentence sound completely bland and utterly derisive at once.

Harry winced. "I haven't forgotten," he said, though he'd spent less time in the past weeks practicing his spells than any time since his arrival at the castle.

"Then, please, demonstrate."

Harry got the distinct feeling Professor Quirrell knew exactly how little time he'd spent on his assigned spells.

He took a breath, steadied himself, and drew his wand. He ran his fingers over the raised patterns that ran down its length and over the twisting base where it connected to the handle, trying to find some connection to ensure his spells would succeed this time.

He felt Professor Quirrell watching him. It grew more and more uncomfortable until at last he stopped putting it off and began casting.

"Lumonitio. Incendio. Aguamenti. Stupefy."

He carried on down the list, matching each incantation with its wand movement. Mostly. Twice Professor Quirrell stopped him and corrected his wave, or moved his wrist slowly through the tight curve. Then Harry continued, repeating the corrected gestures as closely as possible.

It still felt unnatural, his motions clumsy like trying to write with his off-hand, but Professor Quirrell assured him that was normal.

"Almost no one masters these spells in their first year. But you can't afford to be like everyone else."

"I wouldn't mind being like everyone else," Harry mumbled. "At least then I wouldn't be less."

Professor Quirrell stilled. He sat quietly watching, long enough for Harry to wonder what he'd said wrong, before finally speaking.

"The truth, Harry, is that the world doesn't want us to be strong. They will do everything possible to convince you that you're not as good as you are, that you can't be better than they are."

"Haven't you told me from the start that everyone gravitates toward strong leaders and will admire us if we're powerful?"

"Yes. But that's a distant sort of power. The sort where they know from the beginning that they are of lesser status. The problem arises when they feel they _should_ be better than you. For whatever reason, they're secure in their superiority. And then you stand up, you prove them wrong. Which is easier? To accept the upheaval of their carefully ordered hierarchy? Of course not. They try to tear you down, until you're back beneath them where they think you belong."

Harry found himself nodding. He'd never had words for the feeling before, but what Professor Quirrell described perfectly encapsulated his relationship with his cousin.

Dudley wanted Harry to whimper, wanted him to cry, wanted to see him at his most pathetic. And until he got that, he wouldn't leave Harry alone. Attempts to defy him only drove him to greater cruelties, until Harry got the message. When pushed, fall down and look pathetic. When taunted, don't snark back. Dudley was shallow enough not to care if Harry's behavior was obviously exaggerated.

But what began as self-preservation had become far too much ingrained habit. Harry had stopped trying to stand up for himself years ago, and now there was only so much words could do.

"Miss Parkinson is a good example for you," Professor Quirrell continued. "She's the sort of person who sees what she wants and acts on it. When anyone tries to stop her, she asserts her dominance without hesitation. She refuses to back down. You need to emulate that, Harry."

"That's not what Professor Snape says."

"Because he doesn't care about _you_. His concerns are for Slytherin house as a whole. Whether you personally grow into your true destiny and power, or allow the opinion of the masses to control your life, it means little to him. He doesn't know what I do, he hasn't seen the true strength that hides at your core. We are not like the rest. _You_ are not like them. You needn't allow the manufactured constraints of society to control you. We are Heirs, Harry. Heirs of Slytherin, and of magic itself."

"I'm only halfblood," Harry said automatically, self-deprication coming as naturally as breath, but Professor Quirrell interrupted him before he could say more, slapping one hand on his desk.

" _NO_ , Harry. You are not 'only' _anything_. You are new to this community, ignorant of its ways, but that doesn't make you less important. _Thiss power is ourss, the ssecrets are ours, never forget thiss."_

"But what's the point? I can talk to snakes, and yes, it's really amazing. If it weren't for this, you might never have found me. But how does that make me better than anyone else?"

"Haven't you felt it? The ease with which spells come to you? Your tongue is trained to subtleties most wizards couldn't dream of. You can feel the difference, taste the shape of power as you say it. I've rarely had to correct you more than once."

Harry nodded, a bit uncomfortable, but strangely pleased at the same time. Even if it wasn't anything he'd done or earned, Professor Quirrell's words felt like praise.

"So that's why I'm the first to say new spells right."

"Yes. And that's only the start. Once you're older, once you've mastered the movements for all the basic spells, we can move on to some truly exceptional magics. There are secrets you and I will explore together which only an Heir of Slytherin can uncover. Powers only we can learn."

Harry grinned eagerly, caught up in Professor Quirrell's enthusiasm.

"So long as you keep that in mind," the professor said dryly, "and don't spend all your time memorizing Quidditch scores."

Harry felt overwarm with embarrassment. "Everyone else cares more about Quidditch than spells. It's easy to get distracted."

" _Everyone else_ can afford to be useless and pathetic," Professor Quirrell snapped. Then, at Harry's expression, he sighed and his voice softened. "If I didn't truly believe you had more potential than anyone I've ever met, I'd not be so insistent on this. Right now, your magic is at its most volatile, its most unrefined, its most open. Learning simple spells in the prescribed manner will make you a standard wizard with ordinary power. But if you can find it in yourself to press a little farther, work a little harder now, in later years your power will be unmatched. Can you truly say that Quidditch is more important than that?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "But alliances are important too. You said that in the very beginning. I'm not good at talking to people, but when we're all excited for Quidditch everything is easier. So which is it? Should I be practicing magic, or making friends?"

Professor Quirrell smiled faintly. "Better. But you have plenty of time to do both. I trust you'll at least make an effort to remember?"

Harry nodded, resolving to himself that he would practice every spell at least once every day. He'd find time. Somehow.

"Good. For now, let's run through the set again."

They did so, then another time, then another and another until Harry's arms ached and he felt weak and shaky all over. He still hadn't managed most of the spells in the list, but he trusted Professor Quirrell's assessments more than his own. If he believed Harry would be able to do this, then Harry would try his utmost to do so.

Professor Quirrell conjured a goblet of juice for him as he sat afterward, too worn out to walk all the way back to the common room just yet. They sat and talked about things of less consequence - the other students, Harry's progress in socializing, his daily successes and failures.

They even talked for a time about Quidditch - though Professor Quirrell only asked questions and had no replies of his own. It was obvious he only cared because of Harry, and only a very little even then.

* * *

When Harry returned to the common room, Pansy was sitting with Phylis and talking animatedly while her older cousin mostly ignored her, with the occasional 'hmm' or 'maybe'.

"Want to go outside a bit?" Harry asked, but Pansy shook her head.

"Too wet," she said, and upon consideration it really was.

Harry sat down and tried to find a way to be interested in their conversation, but it was entirely about the proper application of various cosmetics, which Phylis didn't care about and Pansy seemed quite content to ramble on about at length.

Harry eventually gave up and went back to his room. Draco was there, with Vincent and Gregory, casting spells with quiet intensity.

"What're you practicing?" he asked, without trying to be snarky this time. Harry had enough of his own wand problems to know it wasn't necessarily any fault of Draco's, who ordinarily did so well with spellcasting. For him to be spending this much time on a spell, it must be a difficult one.

"Something's not working right," Gregory said. "And it's getting worse."

"What's wrong?"

"Spells are slower and weaker," Vincent said. "You must have noticed."

Harry shrugged. "I thought I was just bad at magic. You're saying it's not just me?"

"Yes," said Draco. "If even I'm having problems, there's something wrong. But no one in the older years noticed anything, so whatever it is seems targeted at someone in first year."

"You make it sound like someone's doing this to you," Harry said. "Or, us, I guess. But that's impossible."

"You wouldn't know what's impossible or not," Draco snapped. He scowled. "You've only been here a couple months. Your muggles wouldn't know the difference between a charm and a chimpanzee."

Harry felt himself blushing. It was true, of course, but Draco didn't have to be so mean about it. It took conscious effort not to duck his head and look anywhere else.

"Then what is it?" he asked.

"If I knew, then I'd have done something about it already, wouldn't I?"

"You can tell the difference," Vincent said. "There's a little lurch. A bit of a pause. It's not normal."

Harry shrugged. He had enough trouble with his wand, from the very start, that he couldn't tell if anything were lurching or hesitating one way or the other.

"Nothing comes as quickly as it should," Draco said. He snapped out a "Lumos!" and the light flicked on. But Harry thought he could see it, now he was looking; a split-second hesitation between the spellcasting and the light. Not like Draco's usually perfect spellwork.

He drew out his own wand and brought it up before him. "Lumos."

It didn't work, so he tried again. This time the light activated, though it had the same hesitation as Draco's.

Harry frowned. "I wouldn't have noticed that."

"It's getting worse."

"How quickly?"

Gregory scoffed. "Too quickly."

"Is there anything we can do?" Harry asked, concerned now.

"We can perform exhaustive testing, record data for comparison, and eventually compile a complete chart of who, where, when, and for how long this delay is occurring," Draco drawled.

"Is that. . . what you're doing?" Harry asked.

"No. It's what a Ravenclaw would do. Do I look like I have time to do something like that? It would be a complete waste of effort. I can tell you right now, it's targeted at us. This room, particularly."

"But what kind of spell could do that?"

"If I knew, I'd already have dealt with the problem. Obviously. My father could raise a fuss and have it dismantled if I could tell him what it is. As it is, all I have is a few spells taking longer than usual, and not enough to be noticeable."

"So it happens outside the dorm too?" Harry asked.

"Less so the farther we are. Outside the castle, there's no delay. The upper floors seem a bit better, but it still only affects us." Draco drew a hand in a circle motion, indicating himself, Harry, Vincent, and Gregory, as well as Shawn's bed which was currently empty.

"It's them Gryffindors," Gregory grunted. "I know it. They're tryin' to make us lose."

"It would be just like them," Vincent agreed, "but I don't think they could. It would take a 'claw to plan this."

"So we're probably facing an inter-house conspiracy against us," Draco said, lying back on his bed. He tucked his hands behind his head. "They don't want us to dominate the House Cup for another year, and the best way to stop us is to sabotage the first years before we have a chance to become a threat."

Harry privately thought this didn't make a lot of sense, but then he also was less competitive than most of his housemates. The cup was a competition, and he'd never been very good at trying to win. He wanted Slytherin to do well, would gladly root for them and try to make their victory more certain if he could, but he wasn't wrapped up in it like the others were.

He couldn't shake a subconscious certainty that any team he tried to help would end up losing. Better to keep out of it.

"How will we stop them?" Gregory asked.

"I don't know yet," Draco said. "Harry, are you in?"

"Sure." Harry didn't want anyone to sabotage his dorm, regardless of house cup or rivalries. "What do you need me to help with?"

"Just keep an eye out. If you see anything suspicious, let us all know so we can investigate."

"I think most things are suspicious," Vincent said. He squinted at Harry. "For instance, why are _you_ here?"

"Because it's my room too?"

"How are we supposed to be sure you're really Harry? You don't have your girl tagging along after you, isn't she always wherever you are?"

"Not in the boys' dorm!" Harry exclaimed. "And leave off on Pansy. She's good and loyal and fun."

Draco smiled slowly. "Yes, she's _so_ loyal. As long as she thinks she can get something from you. No one else would be so patient, so willing to correct her every error and do her studying for her."

"Hey, that's not how it is."

"Isn't it?"

"No!"

Draco shrugged. "Yep, it's the real Harry. No one else would be so confident in defending that bitch."

Harry flinched and blushed. Vincent grinned.

"You shouldn't be mean to her," Harry said. "It's not a good idea to be divided in our own house."

"As long as we present a unified front to everyone who would tear us down from outside, it doesn't matter what we do inside. And you can't get much more inside than this."

"But she's powerful and rich, didn't you say so yourself?"

Draco smiled even wider. "I wouldn't insult her to her face, of course."

"That's terrible," Harry said.

But he knew he wouldn't dare to repeat Draco's insults to Pansy either. He had the feeling she'd react very poorly indeed.


End file.
